


Whatever Mischances May Happen

by GooseberryPicker



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Autistic Character, Background Het, Butch/Femme, Cinderella Elements, Coming Out, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Disabled Characters, Earn Your Happy Ending, F/F, Female Alpha, Female Omega, Gender Dysphoria, Happily Ever After, Happy Ending, Introspection, Lesbian disasters, Mutual Pining, Slowburn AND Love at First Sight, Trans Female Character, Transitioning, Victorian, Victorian Omegaverse, What Comics Fandom would call 'Identity Porn', asthmatic character, gender euphoria
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2020-05-13 21:21:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 65,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19259398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GooseberryPicker/pseuds/GooseberryPicker
Summary: Using the anonymity of a masquerade to spend one night as her true self is undoubtedly the most magical experience of Ivy Farrow’s life, but she knows it’s only a temporary reprieve. The next morning she must go back to pretending to be the much coveted “male” Omega the ton sees her as. Believing her newfound visibility has dashed any chance to transition, Ivy does her best to put the magic of the masquerade-- and the memory of the spirited Alpha gentlewoman who swept her off her feet-- behind her.Something that becomes quite impossible to do when the same dashing Alpha she danced with at the ball arrives in London and publicly vows to stop at nothing to find the mysterious Omega girl who captured her heart. Ivy isn't sure what she fears more: that her gallant pursuer will uncover her secret, or that she won't.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Content Advisory: Since Ivy is a trans woman who in the closet for a good portion of the story, other characters will misgender her in their dialogue and narration. However, everyone she comes out to will immediately switch to her correct pronouns, she will not be outed against her will (although there may be times when there is risk of it), and she WILL get a 100% guaranteed Happily Ever After complete with living full time.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet Ivy, an Omega about which a great deal of fuss has been made, and she considers her prospects.

Ivy Farrow stared out the narrow window of the bedroom she shared with her sister, watching the pedestrians bustling about in the late summer rain with her chin cradled in the palm of her hand. In her other hand she held a gilded card pinched between her thumb and forefinger, and she tapped its corner upon the surface of the table that was serving as her writing desk. Beneath the steady patter of raindrops she could hear the beat of trampling feet, the muffled cries of umbrella sellers, a lone cackle of laughter.

When they had lived in her Ama’s house there had been an apple tree that grew beside her bedroom window. A fork in it’s crown had been occupied by the nest, which in turn had been occupied by a mated magpie pair. Often she would spend hours reading beside the window, watching the birds come and go and listening to their soft gurgles of “chack chack chack.” Despite their reputation as omens of ill fortune Ivy had found both fascination and beauty in the creatures, with their curious gazes and their tiny black jackets that shone like soap bubbles in the light. The citizens of London certainly had their own charms, but they were a drab replacement for her merry little piebald neighbors. Ivy frowned in disapproval at herself and sighed through her nose. This was her lot now, and it was not for her to vent her sorrow by thinking such unkind things. 

She wondered if the magpies were still there, or if her Ama’s family had taken offense at the limbs of the tree blocking the view and pruned it down after moving in. 

Ivy knew that to dwell on this possibility was to risk shifting her mind entirely to morbund rumination which could serve her no practical use now, and so she turned her face away from the window and took in a deep breath. The air in the room smelled of zinnia and violet, rose and azalea-- an oppressive floral plea for her attention made up of nearly a dozen individual bouquets, each one begging she compose a grateful note in response. 

It was this task that she’d been working at for the past several hours. Each arrangement had arrived paired with a calling card, all of which she’d laid out on the table in consideration of her prospects. She’d swallowed the unease which had risen, like bile, from her stomach to the back of her throat at the sight of them all, and managed to whittle away at the task by beginning with those suitors who were most unlikely. It was fairly simple to compose notes which expressed gratitude with grace but did not give undue hope. Much more difficult was composing her replies to those gentlemen whom she was seriously considering. 

Responding to each of their gifts without showing undue favoritism would have come much easier, she felt, had none of these suitors decided to secret billet doux within their arrangements. The first letter she’d discovered, a small note tucked between the stems of a bouquet which she’d spied while straining to place it atop a dresser, had sent her into such a panic that she’d set immediately to clawing through every other arrangement to see if they held similar secrets. Most were thankfully free of illicit correspondence, but three others contained letters, and the front of her shirt had been thoroughly stained by streaks of yellow pollen from her frenzied search. The letters she had recovered had thrown her careful balancing of replies entirely out of order. She could not help but find letter writing a very intimate thing in comparison to composing decorous notes, at least, and to find herself obligated to reply to so many all of the sudden was a bit overwhelming. 

The most pernicious letter of the four, that which consumed her focus at the moment, had been hidden away in one of the largest bouquets delivered to her Aunt Cecilia’s row house that afternoon. For nearly the tenth time, Ivy read over the missive, written in looping fanciful script on parchment scented thickly with an unmistakably Alpha musk.

_Mr. Iven Farrow,_

_I beg that you will find the mercy to forgive me for writing what may be an impertinent missive, but I know that my heart will not cease to rail against me until I have revealed to you in full the secret depths of it’s devotion. Since the moment when I first made your acquaintance, I have been enchanted by your beauty and your manner, and my memories of our dances and our conversations have occupied my every thought._

_I do not mean to frighten you when I impress upon you the constancy, the intensity, of my affections. It is simply that I cannot express how enchanting I find every aspect of your presence, how strongly my soul longs to bask in the shining light of your company. When you come into a room it is as if every other debutante vanishes in your wake as the night’s stars before the dawning of the sun-- you outshine them without effort. I am blessed, and grateful beyond articulation, to have my bachelorhood coincide with your own, to have the chance to even behold a creature so rare and precious among the gentry as you are._

_I hope that this small token of my affection is taken in the spirit it is meant-- not as presumption of your reciprocation, but as a symbol of my hope that you will continue to allow this humble Alpha to share in your company._

_Your Most Ardent Admirer,_

_Lord Westhull_

Ivy considered her reply, rubbing her thumb over the guiding of Lord Westhull’s calling card. His Lordship certainly had talent when it came to the writing of love letters, but his passion made it quite difficult to give a measured reply without seeming cold in comparison. Lord Westull was among the most coveted Alphas of the season, she knew, and certainly numbered among her most promising prospects. Spoony temperament aside, as heir apparent to an Earldom and a profitable estate he would have no financial obstacles to fulfilling her wish that her family too be provided lodgings and allowance. 

Privately, she could not help but feel that the Alpha was a good deal more in love with the thought of love itself than he was with her as an individual. 

But, Ivy reflected, this was another unkind thought-- and one she hardly deserved to have, seeing as _she_ was not in love with him either. She was not in love with _any_ of her suitors, and without her heart to guide her in making a match she was reduced to comparing them on their holdings and how well she could imagine herself coping with their temperaments. She hated to be so superficial, but she could not see how one could choose a mate with sincerity when there was nothing _but_ the superficial between them.

Lord Westhull’s letter was perhaps too challenging to start with, Ivy decided, placing his Lordship’s calling card back in place on the tabletop. She folded his letter and moved it to the side, turning her focus to the calling cards she had lined up in rows. Next to Lord Westhull’s was Lord Thomas Theed’s-- the newly presented second son of a Duke whose wealth was such that she suspected he could cover her family’s living expenses twelve times over and not notice an effect on his coffers. Lord Thomas’ primary merit was that he supplied conversation beyond broad, commonplace flattery and an endless extolation of his own interests-- something it was difficult to say for the others. His letter had been a great deal more restrained than Westhull’s, something she was grateful for.

Lord Hanfort’s card occupied the row below Westhull and Theed's. He’d not written her a letter, something she took no insult in, but rather saw as a relief and even a boon. He had so far been refreshingly respectful in his approach of her. He’d not tried to corner her in an aside of the way room, or on a balcony or terrace when she was trying to catch her breath, as it seemed so many Alphas were intent to. Her only hesitation came from the way the Alpha spoke of her family. It was not that he was brazenly insulting, as some of her rejected suitors had been, but his attitude was cold enough that she feared he might attempt to distance her from them. Sharing a row with Hanfort’s card was one from Lt. Wiskam, a widower, and another from Mr. Chandler, a Beta. 

It seemed to Ivy that none of the ton expected her to seriously consider the two of them, but Ivy saw no reason they could not prove perfectly serviceable mates. Lt. Wiskam had been awfully forward on the first occasion they had met, but the Alpha would not make the same demands upon her that a young bridegroom might, and had an estate and comfortable savings out of which she could spend pin money even after his passing. His letter, admittedly, was overly familiar in parts, but perhaps this was merely an effect of being out of practice in the realm of courtship. Mr. Chandler was the only suitor whom Ivy could say she felt genuinely amicable towards. He was rather shy, but his letter had been earnest and well-mannered, and he hadn’t the sharp Alpha scent that could put her near fainting. She might have accepted him but that the Beta had little wealth and no land to his name. Ivy could hardly ask or expect him to provide funds for her relatives, even if Ivy herself needed little in the way of luxuries.

Really, Ivy thought to herself, she _should_ feel lucky to have the luxury of multiple suitors to choose from. She _should_ be grateful for the hand she’d been dealt, the attention and fervour her presentation as an Omega drew. If she’d remained a Beta, she and Millicent might have pressed on with their efforts to recover their Ama’s inheritance and title, but she suspected that her Ama’s brothers would have just dragged them through the courts until the legal fees left them truly destitute. As an Omega she at least had the opportunity to make an advantageous match, one that could yet save both her and her elder sister from relative poverty. 

Still, she could have been happy as a Beta. She could have found work as a clerk perhaps, sold her things and lived modestly, attracting little to no attention from society. She might have saved up until she could afford to buy new clothes and leave her Aunt’s home. Might have gone by another name, disappeared into the country and lived out a peaceful and quiet life. She could have been a decent Governess, or perhaps a school teacher-- her Ama had ensured she received a good education before her passing. 

_Could_ have, _might_ have-- their mother had promised, or so Millicent claimed, that Ivy could grow up to become anything she wished, _including_ a lady. But mothers had to indulge their children, did they not? How could she have explained to Ivy, then a child of five years, that all the dreams and all the wishes of her heart amounted to little more than dust motes in the sun? Much kinder was a comforting lie, and it had not been her mother’s fault that Ivy had clung to that childish fantasy far too long, had held it fast to her breast even as the unfairness of the world made itself abundantly clear.

Ironically, had she been born with the corporeal characteristics expected of a lady, her presentation would have been barely notable to the ton. For it was her status as the most coveted and rare of creatures, an apparently _male_ Omega born to a member of the gentry, that led to her being pursued like a fox by hounds by what seemed to be every single Alpha in the ton. 

“Iven!” The sharp voice of Aunt Cecilia rang through the house, jarring her back to reality. 

Ivy blinked hard, realizing that tears had formed in her eyes as she’d sat in contemplation of her situation-- exactly what she had hoped to avoid doing. How weak her will always seemed to be, even against herself. Before she could chasten herself further, her Aunt Cecilia called out again: “Iven! Could you come down, dearie?”

“Yes Auntie,” she called back reflexively, though likely the woman would not hear her at this distance. She moved awkwardly through the forest of flower arrangements taking up most of the furniture and some of the floor, careful to avoid knocking any over on her journey to the door. Once out in the hall she wiped her tears quickly from her cheeks with the tips of her fingers and glanced at the clock before setting on to the stairs. It was near to the time Millicent would be back from work-- perhaps she would advise her in the matter of her letters. The Beta was very good with her words, when she wished to be. 

Ivy rounded the landing and cast her gaze towards the open parlor room, where her Aunt was busy basting the hem of a gauzy costume skirt. Her Omega client, a music hall singer of some infamy by the name of Gertrude, balanced primly on a stuffed footrest. The girl was wearing only the barest of undergarments, as the nature of a fitting generally required. Besides her corset and drawers, she was accessorised with a tape measurer draped over her neck and a few pins held between her lips. Her arms and shoulders were quite exposed and, even more scandalous than that, so were her svelte legs. 

Ivy froze, clutching the banister, halfway down the flight-- but it was not the brazenness of the starlet’s naked shoulders that had stunned her. This sort of sight was one that Ivy had grown accustomed to after being taken in by their mother’s sister, who worked as a seamstress for local theaters and music halls. Rather, she’d been struck stupefied by the scent and presence of a familiar Alpha. 

Lord Hanfort stood with his hat beneath his arm, hovering awkwardly just outside the threshold the parlor and looking pointedly away from Gertrude, who for her part seemed utterly uninterested in him. At the halting of Ivy’s footsteps the Alpha looked up, locking eyes with her. She sucked in her breath at the instinctive chill that ran down her spine from the burning intensity of his gaze, her grip on the banister so tightly her knuckles must be drained of color. 

“Mr. Farrow,” he greeted in a deep Alpha baritone, his scent restless and his expression grave. “Good Evening.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is my first foray into writing original Omegaverse fiction as well as my first attempt at Historical Romance, and it owes a great deal to JD_Riley's excellent series. The chapters are going to be relatively short (2-3k) but I expect the full story to end up in the upwards of 70k range and I hope to update every other week. 
> 
> I dearly hope you'll come to find Ivy as lovable as I do-- she's a bit meeker than your average romance heroine, but she's a dear girl and she'll have the chance to blossom a great deal over the story.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which class is shown to be relative and Ivy's sister makes an entrance.

“L- Lord Hanfort,” Ivy said, belatedly realizing she must be staring at the Alpha with a perplexed expression. She tried to hide it, but could not be sure she succeeded. She hated herself for the stutter, but it was only that the appearance of one of her suitors was such a surprise. If she had not just looked at the clock she would have assumed she’d completely lost track of time, for it was far too late in the evening for anyone to come calling. She wasn’t even in visiting dress. _Worse_ , she realized with a mortified glance downwards, she was still covered in specks of pollen. After a moment's hesitation she descended the last of the stairs so that she and the Alpha might speak on equal footing, a choice she quickly regretted for how starkly it highlighted their differences in height.

Aunt Cecilia looked up from her work, peering at Ivy with an expression that might have been neutral but for the way the fold of her jowls over the corners of her mouth always seemed to give her an air of magnified sternness. 

“Iven, my dear one, this fellow is here insisting to speak with you.” She gestured towards Lord Hanfort with a dismissive wave and characteristic brusqueness. “Please do so and make him go away at once.” 

Lord Hanfort blanched at her words, casting an appalled glance at the seamstress, and Ivy was glad for the moment of relief this provided her from his piercing and unusually heated gaze. He didn't stare for long, however, turning his eyes near immediately back to Ivy and swallowing dryly.

“Good Evening, my Lord.” Ivy paused after the belated greeting, measuring her response. “I apologise for my surprise, it is just that I had expected you had departed London already. The season's end usually sees such an egress from the peerage, if I understand quite correctly. I hope that there is nothing dire that keeps you here against your will?”

“You are correct, of course, I was set to have left a week ago.” He spoke his words almost breathlessly, his tone and scent notably restless even at this distance. “And it _is_ something dire--” he looked away and then back to her, turning his hat in his hands by the brim “that is, the idea that you could be left by your lonesome here seems to me as dire as anything-- but it is quite in accordance to my will.”

“Your concern is...” she paused, struggling for words in the face of his unexpected familiarity, her shock and embarrassment “...noted. I will not be cruel in suspending it, but immediately reassure my Lord that I am quite contented with the hospitality of my Aunt and the company of my sister.”

“It pains me to leave you, here,” Hanfort looked pointedly around the parlor, at Aunt Cecilia and quite nearly at the actress she was fitting. He boldly took a step forward, and lowered his voice, though it's Alpha edge kept it quite audible. “You were not made for this dire life, little one. You are in soul of more refined circumstances than your birth. I know you despair of the city, would that you could visit my manor in Durham-” he cut himself short, covered his mouth with a gloved hand, and removed it to speak all in a rush, his scent gone nauseatingly intense.

“You know an Alpha, especially one enamoured as I am with you, can no more bear the mistreatment of an Omega than bear to cut off their own arm. When I think of how you are suffering, surely, alone as you are,” Ivy could scare believe what he was implying, and hastily cut him off in an attempt to divert him.

“I find every happiness in the company of my family, I assure you Lord Hanfort-” the Alpha took another step forward with a flash in his eyes and Ivy hesitated, rendered helpless in seeing that words designed to soothe seemed only to provoke.

“How many heats,” he very nearly _growled,_ “are you determined to undergo without relief, Omega, before you see the sense of my words?”

Ivy felt as if the man had slapped her across the face. 

She'd prefer that he had, even, rather than refer to her _heat_ so frankly. Her hands trembled, curling into fists at her side, and she turned her back to him curtly. It grated against her Omegan instincts to do so, but she could not bear to face him with her cheeks so flushed and her scent sharp with shock.

“Mr. Farrow,” Lord Hanfort called, and to his credit he sounded mortified, but not nearly enough to make her reconsider her motion.

“If it distresses you to see my circumstances, my Lord,” she replied, voice thin but firm, “I assure you-- you need not come visiting at my _home_ to view then. Rather, I think it may be more prudent if you do _not_.”

“Mr. Farrow,” he protested, and then, in a desperate whisper, “ _Iven…_ ”

“Thank you for your visit,” she continued as if she had not heard him, fearful that a moment of hesitation would steal her boldness. “Feel no obligation to leave your card at the door.”

Lord Hanfort was silent, and there was a terrible moment in which Ivy feared he would _insist_ she look at him-- but then she heard the sound of his boots as he turned down the hall, and the open and shut of the door as he made his hasty departure. Ivy released the shaky breath she had not known she had been holding. 

“Well!” Gertrude exclaimed, speaking out the side of her mouth so as not to let fall the pins between her lips. “I would have skinned that farshtunkener alive if he'd spoke to me like that, title be damned.”

Before Ivy could respond she heard the front door open once more, this time rather brusquely, and Millicent’s voice piped up from the entryway.

“I say, that toff back therelooked like he'd been made to eat shit.”

“ _Millicent Farrow!_ ” Ivy squeaked in horror at her language, though she could admit it presented a preferential horror to that of the encounter she had just escaped.

“Millie!” Gertrude called out at nearly the same moment. “Thank Moses you’re back. Come over here and gossip with me immediately, this wretched woman has been keeping me here like a stuck butterfly for an hour and I can feel my brains rotting out my ears from boredom.”

“Only once I've tended to Ivy,” Millicent called in reply to Gertrude’s demand. She shed her coat and came directly to Ivy, taking her hands and kissing her forehead. So close, her scent soothed Ivy: the distant bite of coming autumn, the shush of dried leaves against pavement, the barest tinge of copper. “Oh dear,” the Beta muttered against Ivy’s temple “you feel a bit warm, might you catch fever?” She pulled back, concern in her eyes. “I thought to myself, that Alpha must’ve done something wretched if he managed to turn even Ivy’s mild little tongue against him, but I didn’t expect that he might have, have thrown you into a...”

“I am only a tad bit vexed, Millie.” Ivy willed her voice to steadiness. “I shall go up to our room and put some cold water on my face and be all right.”

Millicent hesitated, still holding Ivy’s hands. “If you're sure…”

“Quite,” Ivy said, stepping back ever so slightly and forcing a smile. “Go entertain Gertrude, I have letters I must write any way.” 

She did not think for a second that she’d fooled her sister, but she trusted Millicent would recognize that she’d rather not speak of the matter at the moment. Her trust was fortunately well placed, as Millicent made no motion to stop her from ascending the stairs and returning to their room, though Ivy felt her worried eyes upon her even while she chatted with Gertrude.

Though shaken by the encounter with her unexpected caller, Ivy was able to return to her task and see to completion two of her four remaining replies. Lord Westhull’s letter continued to vex her, as well as Lt. Wiskam’s. She distracted herself for a short while rewriting her previously completed reply to Lord Hanfort-- she hated to waste the paper, but after the Alpha’s shocking visit it seemed prudent that she revise her wording to be rather less warm. With this taken care of she managed to compose her notes to her remaining suitors, though she was only somewhat satisfied with what she’d written to Lord Weshull. By the time she finally determined her task to be completed, what little daylight had shown itself through the rain had already slipped from the sky. She considered returning downstairs to speak with Millicent and Gertrude, but the risk that her appearance might reignite discussion of Lord Hanfort’s behavior made her wary. In any case, she felt quite tired though she'd done little all day, so she made her way across the room to the closet, changing into her night dress. It was yet too early to go to bed, so she returned to the table and busied herself making the final preparations for mailing her notes

“Oh!” Ivy’s head perked up the moment she heard her sister’s exclamation, betraying her eagerness to be waylaid from her monotonous task. Millicent had halted halfway through the door, a large and unwieldy looking brown paper package held under her arm.

“It stinks like a spring ballroom in here,” the Beta said, brows crinkled, and though her mild scent couldn’t possibly assert itself all the way across the stuffy room, Ivy knew her sister well enough that she could clearly imagine the smell of wet fallen leaves which marked her displeasure. Millicent scrutinized Ivy’s collection of bouquets and, realizing their shared bed was the closest flat surface unoccupied by flowers, walked over and dumped her burden unceremoniously on the quilts. 

“What is this that you have there?” Ivy inquired. She was certain Millicent hadn’t been carrying anything when she’d returned from her work.

“A secret,” Millicent answered, unpinning her braided hair and setting about moving the bouquets on the floor atop those pieces of furniture Ivy hadn’t been tall enough to reach the top of. “I will show you it in time. Don't peek, I've tied the twine tight and your sloppy knots will give you away if you try to cover up.”

Ivy laughed lightly. It felt strange to her ears, as if she had not laughed in a very long time. “And if I do peek?” she teased, “What will you do?”

Millicent turned her face towards Ivy and fixed her with her sternest expression.

“I shall feel very sadly, and I will tell you that, and you will do your own punishing with your guilty conscience.”

Ivy flushed, having no counter for that. The Beta knew her all too well. 

“I don’t suppose any of these are for me?” Millicent asked, referring to the flowers in her arms. She was obviously jesting, but Ivy felt a pang of guilt anyway, for her sister deserved admirers far more than she did.

“If the Lords of the ton had any taste, they _all_ would be,” she replied firmly, watching out of the side of her vision as Millicent, having displaced all of the arrangements she could, transferred her mysterious package to the floor of their closet and then began unbuttoning the shirtwaist she wore as part of her shop uniform.

“Speaking of tasteless Lords,” Millicent called behind her shoulder as she changed into her nightclothes. “Gertrude told me what that _ass_ of a man said to you.” She shook her head and let out a disgusted exclamation. “Next time I see him I will be _sorely_ tempted to lay him out.”

Ivy frowned, turning fully around in her chair to face her sister’s back. “You know you mustn't.”

“Yes yes, I know I mustn't.” Even without a view of her face, Ivy was sure she was rolling her eyes, and the Omega sighed again through her nose, fiddling with her pen. 

“Do…” Ivy hesitated before continuing her question. “...Do you think it would be acceptable, in light of his behavior, to give him a rather cool response going forward?”

“I think it would be perfectly acceptable to tell him to jump into the Thames,” was the definitive reply. With her changing done and her clothes hung up, Millicent sat upon her side of the bed and groaned, clearly appreciating the chance to get off of her feet. 

“How were things at the shop today?” Ivy asked.

“Wretched as always. The owner remains an absolute cad. The Omegas still resent me for the fact that the Beta shoppers prefer a Beta’s assistance. I was again stuck with that customer who is forever slipping things into her pockets and then accusing us of trying to steal from her. High society ladies are an absolutely horrid lot.” Millicent huffed out a burst of air that blew loose strands of hair away from her face. “You being the exception, of course,” she added as an afterthought.

“Surely you are an exception as well.”

“I’m not a high society lady.” Millicent’s expression of indignation suggested she felt she’d been accused of something criminal, though the tone of her voice was simply weary.

“Your Ama _was_ a Baron,” Ivy reminded her gently.

“ _Your_ Ama was a Baron,” Millicent snapped back, suddenly tense. “I’m just the bastard our mother whelped back when she was a scullery maid with one foot in the poorhouse, four years before she even _met_ your Ama.” 

“In Ama’s heart you were just as much her pup as I,” the Omega tried, hoping her words might settle her sister’s turmoil, “you must know that she loved you as her own blood, she insisted you have her name.”

“And what did that mean?” Millicent’s scent had grown sharp enough that Ivy could now pick out the must of wet leaves beneath the floral chaos in the room. “When her brother could come into our home before she was even buried, and throw me out the back door like a bag of kitchen scraps? What did that _love_ amount to, in the end?”

Ivy cringed and turned abruptly back around in her seat, staring down at the tabletop and blinking fiercely to prevent tears from forming in her eyes. She should have kept her mouth shut, rather than say something so foolish, and dig up such painful memories. It was beginning to seem that she’d never bring anything _but_ trouble upon her family.

“Sorry,” Millicent’s voice rose from behind her, heavy and ashamed, cutting through Ivy's thoughts. “I do not mean to snap at you. I should not. I beg you, ignore my ravings. I am…” her voice trailed off, she sighed. “I am simply… tired.” 

“No, no I am the one who is sorry” she rushed to assure, “I should have thought before I spoke.”

There is another silence before she hears the dusty thump of Millicent laying back on the bed.

“Do you think you will come to bed soon?” she asked. “I’d like to retire but I don’t want to turn the light off on you.”

Ivy chewed at her lower lip, looking back over the papers stacked on the table. She was tired, yes, but also filled with a strange nervous sensation, and doubted she could independently calm herself enough to slip into sleep.

“Would you be willing to read to me first, Millicent?” she asked, voice wavering. “It always helps me to sleep.”

“Of course,” the Beta answered, “though I’ll ask you to fetch the book, now that I’ve laid down I fear my feet will mutiny against me should I stand up again.” Ivy considered this the least she could do. She moved from the table to a small shelf, where she looked through the modest collection of tomes they’d managed to collect since losing access to their home library. Once she’d picked the one she wanted she navigated back to the bed, where Millicent was reclined against a pillow and kicking the quilts down so that they both might get beneath them.

“You’re quite fond of this one aren’t you?” she remarked as Ivy handed her the book and pulled the bedsheets back over themselves. “Alright, where were we?”

“Start here.” Ivy asked, pointing at the line. Millicent nodded, then yawned into her fist and scooted herself into a more comfortable position, Ivy resting her head upon her shoulder as the Beta began to read in her smooth unhurried voice. 

“ _...But Evangeline’s heart was sustained by a vision, that faintly floated before her eyes, and beckoned her on through the moonlight. It was the thought of her brain that assumed the shape of a phantom. Through those shadowy aisles had Gabriel wandered before her, and every stroke of the oar now brought him nearer and nearer…_ ”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet Zadie, an Alpha with a good deal of respect for nature and an even greater deal of respect for herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgot to mention before, but this story is going to include references to hunting animals. No actual animal death will be depicted but it will be referenced a fair amount

It was early enough in the day that the dew still hung on the underbrush like studded jewels, and as Zadie Everleigh peered about she could spot occasional trails of darker foliage where the droplets had been knocked from suspension by some early awakening animal’s movements. It was cool as night under the thick canopy of old growth trees, especially as the change of the season was making itself known, and Zadie suspected that in a handful of weeks she would be able to see her breath in the air on these daily rides. She held the reigns of her horse loosely in one hand as it walked through the forest, the other hand resting on her thigh as she peered about. The horse, a large bay of no particular breed by the name of Kismet, was a long time companion on Zadie’s surveys, and did not need to be managed to know where to go. Occasionally the Alpha leaned back in cue for the beast to halt so that she could take the wooden pencil from behind her ear and make a mark in her notebook, or gave a small press of her boots to one side to indicated she wished to inspect some peripheral feature of the landscape closer. 

She had not been expecting to find much of interest in this portion of the forest-- having avoided the prizest territory for grouse and other fowl so as not to frighten the soon to be seasonable game away with her presence and her scent-- but soon noted a glimmer of light between the trees. It caught her eye, and as she leaned towards it in interest Kismet altered his course to approach it without further prompting, making her grin.

Investigation unveiled a substantial clearing formed by the fall of a large beech. Between the storms and the high summer winds she’d come upon quite a few fallen trees lately. It fascinated her how the toppling of an ancient tree would create a patch of open sky, under which all sorts of plants too needy of sunlight to thrive under the thick canopy would, within days, burst to life and soak in the rare opportunity to bloom. This particular tree must have fell not long ago, judging by the size of the shoots around it and the dirt still clinging to it’s finest upended roots. Zadie reached into her breast pocket, taking out a notebook which she flipped open. After consulting the angle of the sun and peering around for nearby landmarks, she made a fluid mark on the page, record the location upon a roughly sketched gridded map. Zadie knew that, come the cooler months, fallen trees would be near irresistible hides to deer, especially with a source of food nearby. 

She hummed softly in thought, leafing through her notebook to cross reference her census of prized white and red oaks. Their acorn crop would pose another inevitable draw, as would key patches of those shrubberies and vines which she knew were particularly favored by herds. It would be important to track these, not just for deer stalking, but to gain a better idea of how they might be used to protect the new coppices from browsing. The cutover area in the northwest should serve as another spot for bedding and for bucks in rut to lie in watch for does, and should stay so for another year. She quietly made a note to speak to the head gardener about prospects for the year after-- if perhaps there is a particular area that will do good cut down as buck structure. She circled some preliminary possibilities. 

As of the moment Zadie had only a vague concept of how these factors might mesh together. She had never been the best at holding sums and measures and other intangible things in her head-- but she had a decent gift for maps and for things she could do with her hands. Back at the mansion she had assembled, with painstaking attention, a workspace in the corner of the Grand Hall which definitively organized and consolidated all of the data she had been collecting in the past half dozen years. Besides a large detailed topographical map she had made, she had several sheets of vellum overlays which marked key trees, flowers, coppices, rivers and other sources of water, the territories of birds. She was certain she would find deeper meaning once she had returned home and incorporated what she’d found today.

Kismet raised his head from where he had been scrutinizing the underbrush for young tender grass, swatting his ears and exhaling softly. The motion and noise alerted Zadie to the fact that she had spent several minutes lost in thought and in analysis of her maps. She chuckled under her breath, patting the bay’s broad neck.

“Alright, yes, you’d like to move on,” the Alpha put her notebook and pencil away and retook the reins into her hands, clicking once with her tongue to urge Kismet to resume walking “The sooner we’ve finished the sooner you’ll be back at the stables eating carrots, eh old friend?” Kismet did not reply by sound or motion of the head, but Zadie felt he must have understood for the way his gait accelerated just a bit into a trot.

The rest of the survey was without incident, after a few hours they turned back in the direction of the mansion. Kismet kept his trotting pace until the last mile, whereupon Zadie slowed him to a walk once more and, once in sight of the stables, dismounted and walked beside him.

“What ho, Christopher!” she cried in a booming voice as she approached the structure, expecting that hearing his name called at such a volume would sufficiently rouse the lad from his usual midday nap. “I’ve Kismet back from a ride and could use your aid in her untacking.” 

She walked Kismet in somewhat and took up a length of rope to tie her with. She had removed the reins and bridle entirely, letting the bit fall naturally from the bay’s mouth and replacing the whole thing with a halter, before she looked about and noted that the stablehand had yet to appear. Sliding the tack over her shoulder, she went to pump a bucket of water and bring it over, assuming Christopher to be occupied with some other pursuit. 

She listened for movement, but the sound of Kismet lapping at the water was the only she could detect, besides the soft knickers and hoof-falls of the rest of the stable. She frowned as it occurred to her that the young boy might have somehow gotten himself trapped or hurt somewhere in the loft. When a search of the stable and the grounds close by didn’t turn him up, she decided that he must have had some urgent business elsewhere. With this thought the Alpha returned to putting away Kismet, shrugging his heavy saddle onto her shoulder with little effort.

Zadie was hanging up the tack when she heard a call from the front of the stable and looked up to find the missing stablehand running up to her. 

“Madam Everleigh!” he shouted as he ambled quickly over, slowing in the last few feet to avoid spooking Kismet. “The Earl of Weldwick’s here, says he’s got important news.”

“Bertram?” Zadie frowned for a moment, her wide brows furrowing together. “I’d not expected him at Cardenfirth for weeks-- he should have sent a missive ahead.” She paused in brief reflection on her brother’s steadfast nature and her own tendency to overlook frivolities, and revised her statement: “Well, perhaps he did, in which case he should have sent _two_.”

“He’s brought all of creation and more with him,” Christopher observed. Zadie could not help but smile fondly at the contrast of his stern face to the pitched voice which marked him as barely out of puphood. She felt briefly sentimental but hadn’t the luxury to reflect on the feeling long.

“I assume he’ll want to talk to me right away? He always seems to.” Her grin turned wry, thoughtful. “I suppose it is my fate to be so coveted, even by my kin. Ah, well.” She jerked her head to the side “Kismet still needs grooming, and be sure he gets a good carrot or two for his efforts will you Christopher?”

“Yes Madam,” he nodded sharply.

Zadie made the trek from the stables to the manor with easy, broad strides. She could see quite a few folk bustling about as she approached, and wondered what all of the fuss could be about. There was a man who was not the head gardener ordering around the groundkeepers, who ran about clipping the lawn and pruning the shrubbery. She went to the back entryway into the muck room. As she was replacing her riding boots there, her valet knocked delicately on the doorway to alert her of her presence.

“Ah, Jocelyn,” Zadie sat back on the bench and grinned as the other Alpha immediately swatted her hands away from the laces of her house shoes and began to tie them herself. “Could you-”

“Stand up if you will Ms. Everleigh,” Jocelyn ordered more so than requested, cutting her off. She took off Zadie’s riding cloak to hang before she gave her a careful look over, taking up a brush to remove the worst of the dirt and dust from her riding suit. When she made no additional attempt to speak, Zadie restarted her plea.

“Tell me, Alpha, what is all this fuss about?”

“ _You_ , Zadie.” It calmed Zadie somewhat to hear such a familiar address from her valet-- when Jocelyn called her Madam it was usually her first warning that the house was soon to be invaded by peers and other such pompous individuals. The woman had been Zadie's lady’s maid, and closest companion, since her twelfth year of life. They'd been inseparable until Jocelyn's presentation, whereupon Zadie had been shocked to find she'd been dismissed from her post (Zadie had thrown a fit nightmarish enough that her mother still referred to it occasionally as the worst week of her life). Fortunately Zadie's own presentation had followed a few months later and Jocelyn had resumed her role, just as valet rather than maid. It was a great relief to Zadie that even in the presence of Bertram, who had substantially stuffier ideas about decorum than she, Jocelyn rarely hesitated to treat her familiarly. 

“ _Me?_ ” Zadie puzzled, her mind catching up belatedly to what exactly her valet had said, “Have I done something especially extraordinary lately?” She honestly could not recall-- certainly she was talented as a forester and accomplished as a gamekeeper, but she’d held those accomplishments for quite some time, and was uncertain why now would be the time to celebrate them.

“I will leave that for his Lordship to explain to you,” Jocelyn replied, at last satisfied enough with her cleanliness to allow her to step outside of the muck room. Zadie made her way brusquely down the hall, assuming Bertram would be towards the front of the house, as Jocelyn trailed behind.

“Hmm, a mystery!” Zadie exclaimed, considering the prospect. “My favorite of genres, you know.”

“I know,” Jocelyn said, thinking perhaps of the many evenings she had spent reading to Zadie out of suspense periodicals and being interrupted every other sentence by the Alpha’s own theories. They were excellent theories, Zadie was sure, though somehow they never seemed to be the ones the writers chose at the end of the story. “Now I must ask your pardon,” the valet continued, “I have to go and keep the decorators out of your personals. The Earl has given them keys to _everything_.” 

Zadie turned, intending to protest her abandonment, but the valet has vanished so seamlessly one would think her a Beta. She wondered for a brief, rueful moment why the Alpha bothered asking permission when she would inevitably act as she pleases-- but she was soon distracted by the sight of a contingent of Omegas bustling down the hall, a long train of sparkling fabric held in their arms.

“Oh,” Zadie blinked and her smile returned to her. “Hello little ones.” She bowed to them. They looked with heavy doe eyes up at her, then at one another, then giggled before shushing each other and moving on without a word towards her. She was sorry to see them go, but took some solace in the sweet and floral scent that lingered after them in the hall. Neither her mother nor her sisters had come down to Cardenfirth in some time-- their scents had long faded from the walls and the furnishings, overwhelmed by the distinct musk of Alphas. She noted to herself, half idly and half in consternation, that she had lived without the steady presence of Omegas for some time. Her father doubtless would have opposed this state of affairs, as he had always preached that an Alpha living far from Omegas was bound to go feral.

Zadie’s thoughts kept her occupied until she came to the foyer and saw that her brother was nowhere to be found. There was no disappointment in this discovery, however, for instead she was twice as pleased to find a familiar Beta awaiting her.

“Lady Belinda!” She exclaimed, rushing over and at once scooping her brother's wife up by the waist, lifting the stout Beta in the air and twirling the both of them around, the older woman’s skirt billowing as Zadie barked out a laugh. “Or, I suppose by now I should be used to calling you Lady _Weldwick,_ shouldn't I? I haven’t seen you in _ages_!”

“ _Alpha!_ You must put me down,” the Beta scolded, though her sparkling eyes and the little kicks of her shoes in the air betrayed her mirth. None the less Zadie obeyed, placing her carefully back down upon the rug.

“My Lady,” she teased, falling to her knees and grabbing the Beta’s small manicured hands in her larger, coarser set, “tell me that you've at long last grown bored of Bertram and decided to run away with me.” 

“ _Dastardly_ Alpha!” Belinda slapped her hand against Zadie’s shoulder in punishment for her sass. “You are downright terrible. We must clean up your manners before you flirt with the wrong Lord’s wife and get yourself horse whipped and chucked into the street.”

“A man alive who could whip me,” Zadie cackled, rising from her kneeling position and placing her fists on her hips, “now _that’s_ a tale! But really, where would I find a Lord’s wife to flirt with all the way out here, excepting yourself? And where is it that Bertram has squirreled himself away?”

“I’m right here,” the deep voice of her older brother rumbled from the entryway of the grand hall, his tone flinty and cold as if he would very much like to prove himself the man alive who could whip her. “And you are one to speak about _squirreling away_ , Alpha.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zadie's original character note was just "Gaston but a nice lesbian who drinks a gallon of Respect Women Juice every morning" and unfortunately if she were real I would marry her in a heartbeat.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Zadie learns she is to be afflicted with visitors, and her brother crosses a line

Zadie turned to Bertram, his face overcast in a scowl, and shot him a quizzical look. “You’re really so cross that I was out riding when you arrived, Alpha? I apologize, though I meant no insult by it. I simply did not expect...” she trailed off, feeling something to be _odd_ about the sight of her brother standing in the vast entryway to the hall-- from wherein she could make out the movement of a number of workers. “...Did there not used to be a pair of _doors_ there?”

“Yes, there were,” the Earl replied in a tone that suggested she was fussing about something of no real consequence. “Zed, do you realize it is the end of July already?”

“Of course. That’s why I was out on the grounds, preparing it for the season-- the Glorious Twelfth is only a few weeks away.” Zadie could not help but find it a tad bit strange that he'd think she of all people would forget. Perhaps there was something weighing on his mind.

“It is not the upcoming hunting season that concerns me, Sister, rather it is the one that has just _passed_.” When Zadie continued to stare expectantly, Bertram sighed and elaborated: “The _social_ season.”

“...It’s no surprise that that's what concerns _you_ ,” Zadie chuckled in good nature, “I haven’t missed that you’re hardly an outdoorsman. Is that not the whole reason why I manage Cardenfirth’s game and grounds and you stick to Weldwick and all your sums and parliamentary duty?” 

“It is not _my_ social season, but _yours_ , that concerns me,” Bertram replied, lips thinning with the sternness of his expression. “If you wish at all to be married some day, you have done yourself a terrible disservice in once again hiding away from the ton this season.”

“ _Hiding?_ ” she echoed, her smile flagging, rather put out to have been accused of cowardice. “I’ve not been hiding at all. If you’d asked Jocelyn she would tell you I’ve been to London plenty.”

“I did ask her, and she told me you’ve gone _twice--_ once to get a new saddle and another time to get a trophy mounted. Neither time did you attend a single party.”

“Twice is quite acceptable considering London is all the way out _there_ ,” she gestured vaguely in the direction in which she supposed London was. “I say, Brother, I do find it rather strange that you have come here to throw a celebration in my honor, yet when I meet you, you speak unkindly to me without any just cause. Must every spare Alpha scramble over to the capital to pinch a punch glass between their fingers and flatter the dowagers if they wish to find a mate? You know I’ve been busy managing the estate.”

“Zed,” Bertram sighed, “you and I know very well that you are busy only because you _wish_ to be busy. I have enough money to pay the salaries of ten gamekeepers, but you insist on doing this work yourself. The truth is, you’ve become a veritable hermit since Father passed. I’ve been negligent in my duties as both title holder and head of this family-- chief among them, securing a happy union for my sister, as I have for myself. You’re going to be an old bachelor before you know it, Alpha.”

Zadie considered this for a moment, then shrugged. “I’ll make my way through the widows, in that case.”

Bertram looked as if he could nearly spit with indignation. “You absolutely shall _not!_ ”

“So you wish for me to... what, exactly? Spend next year’s season in London? It seems unfair for me to come upon the ton so suddenly-- how are the other Alphas to secure wives if they are up against _me_?” Her tone bordered on chastising because, really, how could Bertram be so thoughtless-- he himself had suffered in the wake of the devastating effects of her charm. He'd still been a bachelor when she'd had her first season, where she’d had no trouble getting dances and permission to go calling despite the somewhat less than exuberant welcome female Alphas seemed to generally get. Meanwhile, he himself had spent the time stuck to the wall and could barely catch a waltz. “I’ll charm the women away from their grasp before they’ve even gotten an introduction. Really it’s-” Zadie was cut off by a sudden thud against the back of her boots, and she looked down to see a Beta boy in the middle of rolling up the carpet upon which she stood. He cleared his throat pointedly, and she stepped aside to the hardwood floor to let him continue. 

“You may be the most _conceited_ Alpha in the history of civilization,” her brother muttered, expression pinched, and for a moment she thought he might throw his hands up and surrender to her argument, but instead he pressed on. “I suppose, were I a wiser man, I would have predicted that this attitude of yours would lead directly to your current _pigheaded_ refusal to actually put the _work_ into finding a mate.” 

“Your devotion to fair play is admirable, Alpha,” Belinda piped up, perhaps sensing the mounting tension between the two Alphas, as she walked across the foyer to stand next to her husband, “but allow me to ease your mind. This season’s seen a true outlier-- a young _male_ Omega born into the gentry.” 

“Although his family history is less than pristine,” Bertram noted, “his Ama was a Baron and his birth legitimate, but his mother was a commoner and what's worse, an unwed mother-- apparently their marriage was quite a scandal in our parent’s day.”

“Gossip aside,” Belinda interjected with a slight jab of her elbow to her husband’s side, “the little one’s managed to enchant the Alpha Lords so thoroughly that they’ve been chasing after him since the moment he was presented.”

“Seeing as he’s escaped the season without an engagement, they’ve become even more frantic in their pursuit,” Bertram grumbled. Zadie thought he might be upset at being interrupted, but he was so often upset that it was sometimes difficult to tell what had irked him. “The point being, they’ve had their fair chances to court the girls, and they’ve squandered it. You may feel no guilt in snatching them up, and I’m sure they will be delighted to find at least one Alpha with a steadfast disinterest in the male of their dynamic, provincial though you may be.” 

Zadie, truthfully, was not listening very carefully to this part, instead watching the Beta boy roll up the rest of the long foyer rug, which he then hoisted over his shoulder and immediately carried down the stair without a glance towards any of them. Zadie knew her brother was a bit gruff, and persnickety by nature, but all this changing about of her territory with no consultation from her was making the hair on the back of her neck prickle with anxiety. Not to mention the rather ridiculous barbs he seemed intent to sling at her.

“And how am I to make their further acquaintance with so many of them fighting over my time at once?” Zadie countered. “Not to mention picking between them.” 

“When it comes to finding the time and place to get better acquainted with them,” Belinda cut in, taking Bertram’s hand and smiling graciously towards Zadie, “you will have both mine and my Lord’s assistance if you need it. Though it's only been a few years since I've come to know you, Alpha, I feel familiar enough with your nature to suspect that, once you find the Lady for you, you shall know it in an instant.”

“May fate have mercy on her,” Bertram muttered beneath his breath.

The edges of Zadie’s mouth twitched briefly downward. She was an Alpha of much good humor, but not infinitely so, and her brother was testing her patience. “Perhaps we can discuss it more when the hunting season has come to a close.” Forcing a smile and looking to change the topic to something less contentious, she leaned to the side and peered at the workers clearing out the grand hall. “So, when does my party begin? And which accomplishment, again, am I being celebrated for?” 

Though the touch of his mate had bled much of the tension from the Earl’s posture and expression, he still seemed oddly exasperated by her genuine enquiry. Zadie considered that perhaps, to him, it was obvious when a party was and was not called for. In addition to his title and his dynamic, Bertram had inherited from their father his passion for organizing balls, socials, and all sorts of other grand gatherings-- an interest considered unusual for Alphas, but one both father and son had certainly shown talent in.

“The party is not _about_ you, Zed, though you certainly will be required to attend. You recall the grand balls which Father threw every year on the Glorious Twelfth?”

“I recall those horridly stiff dresses he made me wear at them until I presented.”

“Well, I am reinstating the tradition.”

Zadie’s eyes widened, her brow rising in a mix of skepticism and alarm.“And have all of the ton trampling around on the grounds, invading my home all of the sudden? Brother, tell me you are trying your hand at comedy.”

“It may be your home, Alpha, but it is my _house_ and my _grounds_. The Cardenfirth Masquerade is the perfect venue to reintroduce you to society. A reintroduction which will be happening sooner rather than later, as I know that by the time the season starts you will have forgotten all about my urgings, and I will be far too distracted by my responsibilities to truss you up like a wild boar and drag you over there myself, as _surely_ you will require. If we are lucky, we may be able to find a debutante or two who will be willing to let you call upon her in the little season.”

Zadie hummed without commitment and resolved immediately that she would spend as much of the next weeks as possible out on the grounds. Remaining at home and watching as Bertram disassembled her comfortable existence at his whim was sure to drive her into a pique which would, among other things, frighten away game and ruin upcoming hunts through the intensity and stickiness of her scent.

“ _Well_ ,” she began, wishing to engineer a peaceful close to the conversation before she and her brother riled each other up to the point that Belinda felt the need to step in once more, “if the matter has already been decided _for me_ , then that is that. I had better go move my papers from the hall. I’m sure your decorators will want a chance to begin work in that corner.”

“That mess?” Bertram replied, cool as ever with a single brow raised. “I had that cleaned up as soon as I got here.”

Zadie felt her face go cold, her scent taking on the fungal musk of rotting wood as panic and horror surged to the forefront of her heart. “ _What?!_ How _dare_ you, that is my _work_ , _Bertram_ -” Her brother’s name disappeared into a guttural growl and her fists clenched tight as fury and betrayal heated her face with roaring blood.

“Calm yourself, Alpha, it merely appeared to me to be a pile of refuse,” Bertram was raising his hands in an attempt at assuagence but all Zadie could think of was the gall, the absolute _gall_ of this Alpha to come into her territory and so uncaringly dispose of the fruits of her labor, of what was precious to her, of the ways in which she made _sense_ of her world. When Zadie spoke next it was with a dangerous Alpha edge to her voice that had her brother widening his stance in unconscious preparation for a brawl.

“ _You **cannot** come into my home and-_”

“ _Zadie,_ ” Jocelyn’s voice cut in, careful to subdue her own Alpha tone while maintaining enough authority so that Zadie was able to tear her focus from her brother and glance towards the valet. “Your work is safe. I moved it all to the study myself.” 

As Zadie stared at Jocelyn she realized she had hunched over, her whole body heaving with the deep anxious breaths she was taking, the hall stinking with her rage. She straightened herself with conscious effort. 

“My sincerest apologies for my abhorrent manners, Lady Weldwick,” she spoke directly to Belinda, who had wisely moved away from the two Alphas and was currently fanning herself in an effort to cut through what must be an eye watering mix of scent. She turned her gaze to her brother and quite deliberately did not extend the same apologies to him. Jocelyn cleared her throat in warning, and Zadie broke eye contact before tensions could rise again.

“Allow me to show it to you, Alpha,” Jocelyn prompted. Another sneaky order, Zadie noted, but one she followed without protest, walking over to the stair and then bounding up them as her valet followed shortly behind.

“And change your clothes before dinner,” her brother called after her, as always devoted the pursuing the last word in any argument “you smell like nag and perspirant.”

Oh, were they not in the presence of a Lady, Zadie seethed. She would paint the foyer blue with her response to _that_. 

Zadie did not go to her office right away, for she trusted Jocelyn to have transported her work with sufficient care, but paced back and forth in the second floor hall and then around and around her sitting room in order to settle her nerves to a manageable level. Once able to focus, she allowed her valet to herd her into the office, where she found everything more or less in the correct place as corresponded with the corner of the grand hall which had been her habit to use. There was not as much space, so everything was a bit crushed in together and meeting in overlaps, but at least she had not lost anything. She exhaled with great relief, and took her notebook from her breast pocket at once to transfer her notes from the day’s ride to her existing maps and notes. So focused on her task did she become that when next she looked up it was close to evening, and Jocelyn had lit a lamp for her. She felt all the sudden terribly exhausted, and the thought of enduring dinner with her brother has her doubly so. 

“Jocelyn?” she called, and immediately her valet was present at her side. “Can you think of a mannerly way to tell the Earl that I fear I cannot stomach the sight of his face tonight.” She was being petulant and she well knew it. 

“Lady Weldwick has already expressed her willingness to arrange for your meal to be brought to you in your bedroom. I believe she is making diplomatic overtures for your sake as we speak.”

“Will you tell her, then, that she is an angel?”

Jocelyn laughed quietly through her nose.

“I will. Shall you retire early tonight?” 

“I think so, yes.”

“Then I will relay the message and help you into your night clothes once I’ve returned.”

Zadie grunted in acknowledgement, looking over her work one last time before pushing her chair back from the desk and standing up. Her neck had become cramped from hunching over, and she cracked it by letting her head lol first to one side, then the other. She moved to her bedroom and shrugged off her jacket and waistcoat, loosening her cravat and finally, after a moment, simply collapsing forward onto the top of her bed, feet dangling over the edge.

She turned her head to the side, cheek resting against the quilt, and found that the view out of her window had been blocked by two large carved wood doors, loose from their hinges and stacked against the wall like spare canvases. “Are those the hall doors?” she asked out loud, trusting that Jocelyn was probably already lurking in the doorway which she had left open.

“I believe they are,” came the valet’s voice. “Now lift your feet.”

Zadie did so, waiting for Jocelyn to remove her shoes before letting them fall again. Jocelyn’s deep feminine sigh met her ear with a sympathetic tone.

“I’m sorry, Zadie. I should have told you earlier that I’d saved your work. I was distracted by concern of what else the Earl’s little minions might be up to while I had my back to them.”

“I am just glad it _was_ saved. Bertram is a damned menace, he’d probably have thrown it all out if it weren’t for you.”

“Poor valet I’d be if I’d let his Lordship bin your _magnum opus_ ” Zadie felt a jab in her side, between her ribs. “Turn around so I can get the rest of this off.” She rolled over and threw her arm over her eyes, sighing.

"Jocelyn, how am I ever to survive this?" She asked, despondent.

"The same way you do everything: with a great deal of confidence in yourself." She peered out from under her arm to see the other Alpha fixing her with a warm smile while unbuttoning her shirt, and found it a comfort.

“...You’re right,” she said at last, shoulders squaring as she pushed aside her morose mood. “I truly am astounding.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ivy reflects on the state of matters, and a scheme is outlined.

In the week after Lord Hanfort’s visit Ivy had done little but lay about in self pitying contemplation, for as humiliating as she’d found the Alpha’s tactless words she had to admit there was a truth to them. She should have agreed to marry the first Alpha she met who was in possession of a stable estate and an even remotely bearable comportment. 

The confusion and anticipation and chaos of her first season left Ivy feeling as if the months had rushed by her in the blink of an eye, like a speeding locomotive. When she’d presented in early spring she had been surprised to find herself inundated by invitations to all sorts of gatherings, having never before considered that she might be viewed as a desirable prospect among the ton. Once she had fully gleaned that this presented her with a rare opportunity to be useful, she and Millicent had needed to rush about to make preparations and arrangements. Neither Ivy nor Millicent had much familiarity with the decorum expected among the gentry-- their Ama had been quite content for them to remain at their country estate, her estrangement to her family and the ton at large entirely mutual. Ivy had needed to learn all about titles and reputations and forms of address-- thankfully Gertrude’s faithful following of society papers made her a willing and able tutor in this matter. She’d had to get a wardrobe as well, though in another fortunate turn her Aunt had been able to help with that, repurposing and improving upon some old costumes she’d dragged out of the storage room at the playhouse across the street. 

Even with that boon they’d come dangerously close to having no choice but to take out a loan, likely at a treacherously steep rate. In the realm of finances, they had been already in a tight spot before her presentation. Aunt Cecilia's earnings had been enough to allow her to support herself in relative comfort, but barely stretched to pay the living costs of two additional residents. The meagre pin money Ama's family had given Ivy after taking over their home had been almost entirely used up getting her and her sister to London. In the time before Ivy’s presentation Millicent had been already working three days each week at the department store, with Ivy performing spare clerkwork as her health permitted. Afterwards, as an Omega and a debutante, she could no longer bring money into the household through labor, and Millicent had to take work every day of the week.

If she had gotten everything over and done with in the first month after her presentation, there would be enough money for both Millicent and her Aunt to live comfortably. She wouldn’t have had enough time to think of her options to excess and become hopelessly enmeshed in all of these complicating factors. She would likely be unhappy in a hastily chosen marriage, certainly, but at least she wouldn't be suffering through her heats alone. This thought served to bring her again back to Lord Hanfort’s words, and to the wretched cycle she’d still hardly become accustomed to after all these months. Her next could not be more than a couple weeks away, and just it's anticipation seemed to drain all of the energy from her body. 

As a rule she preferred to avoid dwelling on the ways her inadequacies had led her to her current situation and limited possible fates, but it seemed there had been nothing much else to do in the past week. It was blazingly hot outside, which meant the air was still putrid with the smells of coal dust and refuse, industry works and decay. In the country it had been the first biting winds of winter which had often worsened her asthma and left her stuck indoors, but after their arrival in London she had quickly discovered it was the higher temperatures that would now serve to keep her prisoner. Before her presentation she had at least kept the hope that the arrival of autumn, and thus cooler weather, would free her. But now she could not venture out without a chaperone, and with her sister still working every day at the department shop so that they could pay their remaining debts and afford the expenses of Ivy's next season, she had no one to accompany her. Her sister’s only days off were those on which she attended to Ivy’s welfare during the worst parts of her heats-- just another way in which Ivy was proving herself a burden.

“Something is bothering you,” Millicent declared, her voice cutting through the fog of Ivy’s thoughts as she strode through the threshold of their bedroom. 

Ivy was unable to suppress a jolt of surprise, looking up from the scrap paper where she had once been sketching. Before, that is, she’d fallen into wool gathering. She made to say something reassuring, to dismiss this claim, but her sister cut her off.

“Don’t try to deny it, I can tell from the smell of this place.” Her nose crinkled, and she looked suspiciously about the space as if expecting to find the source of Ivy’s morose mood. As if it might appear in the form of some corporeal hobgoblin, rather than stemming from the Omega’s own nervous disposition. “I had noticed it before, but I had thought it was all those dreadful flowers rotting. I’d thought to myself, ‘it should dissipate once we throw them out,’ but now it's even more noticeable.”

Ivy blushed with mortification, having taken little notice that her scent had shifted with her thoughts. She sniffed the cuff of her shirt discreetly and winced, suddenly all too aware of the acrid scent of spoiled milk and burnt sugar suffusing the air around her.

“I’ll open the window,” she said, getting up and moving over to it. There was only one, and given it’s small size it had little chance of making a difference, but it at least gave her something to do.

“Have you been locked up here all day?” her sister asked.

Ivy chewed her lip and did not respond, focusing her attention solely on fiddling with the window, which often stuck closed when the weather had been rainy of late.

“You don’t want to talk about it, I suppose,” Millicent continued, a painfully familiar weariness in her voice. Ivy shook her head and, with a frustrated and unladylike grunt, quit the stubborn window and instead turned to gathering up her sketching supplies from the table. Millicent took up her post, giving the window’s frame a few good smacks before pulling it up and open. The air that came in was hardly fresh, but it was at least cutting the stench of Ivy’s moping.

Ivy glanced back to see Millicent peering out the window for a minute before leaning away and cracking her back, palms resting upon the sides of her hips. She moved over to the bed and sat on it’s edge without regard to Ivy’s hurry to free the chair for her use.

“We should do something fun,” the Beta announced more than suggested, conviction in her tone.

“Something fun?” Ivy echoed, rolling the thought around her mind as if it were a foreign coin she couldn’t determine the worth of. It was odd how _alien_ such a thing sounded to her. She furrowed her brows and chewed her lip, sitting down next to Millicent and gazing down at the sketch in her hand-- an approximation from memory of her Magpie neighbors. “Perhaps,” she allowed, voice cautious, “if we have a chance, before the season turns in full… I hardly know what we might do that would entertain us without overmuch expense.”

“Then it is fortunate that I have _just_ the thing to cheer you.” 

Ivy blinked and turned to the other girl, finding on her face a mischievous smirk that both piqued Ivy's interest and raised her hackles. 

“You do?” she asked, uncertain what her sister could be scheming about but quite certain she was scheming about something. She frowned slightly. “It’s not something... scandalous, is it? We can’t go to,” she hesitated, lowering her voice to a near whisper and feeling blood heat the apples of her cheeks, “to, to one of Gertrude’s... _shows_.” As much as Ivy may value Gertrude as her sister’s friend, to be seen at the sort of music halls she performed in would be a ruinous scandal for any young, eligible Omega. Not to mention that, if her act itself wasn’t sufficient to send Ivy into a paroxysm of the lungs, all the cigar smoke in the room would surely do it.

“Nothing anywhere near that scandalous.” Millicent assured with a dismissive wave, grin undaunted. She pressed her fingertips together and leaned closer in an unmistakably conspiratorial manner. “Have you ever heard of the Cardenfirth Masquerade?” 

Ivy thought for a moment. 

“The name of it rings familiar, somehow, but I can’t say for certain.”

“It’s a lavish ball that some dead Earl used to throw every year at season’s end in his country manor, a big _to do_ with a very _romantic_ reputation. Apparently his heir had let the tradition fall by the wayside. Until, that is, this year, when he’s all the sudden decided to reestablish it. Gertie’s been twittering about it nonstop for the past two weeks. It’s coming up in a few days, and I’ve been told it’s generally been quite easy to get in without need of an invitation.”

“Millicent...” Ivy sighed, shoulders slumping, unable to hide her aversion to this prospect. “Forgive me, but after the season I’ve just had I find myself less than keen to get dressed up in a suit and spend a night evading amorous Alphas.” 

She pleaded through her eyes for the Beta’s understanding. The one boon of having little opportunity to go out was that she at least did not have to spend most of her time pretending to be someone she was not. Going to a ball meant being called _Mister_ Farrow, each utterance alike in pain to a small cut, but one made a thousand times in a single night. Going to a ball meant being told again and again about how rare she was, how very _different_ from an Omega girl. Going to a ball meant standing in the midst of a cluster that cooed how _lucky_ she was to be born a _gentleman_.

Millicent’s smile softened, she placed her hand briefly to the side of her arm, giving a reassuring squeeze. “Ah, but you see this party is different, for everyone is required to be in through disguise, and as such one can wear _whatever_ one wants.”

Ivy’s chagrin turned to puzzlement, and she was on the verge of reminding her sister that this scarce made a difference as _she_ could hardly wear whatever _she_ wished. Her words dried up in her mouth when she stumbled upon the revelation that this was precisely what Millicent meant. She clutched the sketch in her hands, crumpling the paper unthinkingly, her cheeks feeling cold and rather tingly.

“You cannot be suggesting what I believe you are suggesting.” Ivy wasn’t sure if she was issuing a warning, a plea, or an order. A plea would be most in keeping with her typical disposition, perhaps, but this was not a typical proposition. 

Whatever her words had represented, Millicent did not even need to speak her answer-- the shine in her eyes told Ivy that this was _exactly_ what she was suggesting. 

“Come to the ball with me, Ivy,” she entreated. “Just this once, let’s us go and have you dress as _yourself_.”

“I- I-” Ivy scrambled to summon objections to this plot, but her words seemed to have scattered to the furthest corners of her mind like a bag of marbles emptied onto cobblestone. All at once it seemed her heart was pounding in her chest, her scent an unplaceable mix of excitement and fear. She felt like she was both floating to the ceiling and sinking into the floor. After further stuttering, and what she was sure must be unbecoming gaping, she managed to grasp onto a point of protest. 

“I h- have no dress to wear!” she sputtered out at last. “You are too tall to lend me yours and-” she lapsed back into silence when her protests seemed only to intensify the puckishness of Millicent’s grin.

Wordlessly the Beta rose, retrieving the package she had a week ago left on the floor of their closet, and presented it to her. When Ivy made no move to unwrap it, hand too busy with twisting the sketch still in her clutches, Millicent took it upon herself. As she untied the knots of twine there unfurled from the paper wrapping a beautiful golden robe à la française, which glittered and glimmered as if enchanted by fairy dust. Ivy covered her mouth to hide her gasp, hand trembling against her lips as she raised her eyes to her sister’s.

“ _Millicent!_ ” she hissed, “Where did you _get_ this?”

“Costume storage at Auntie’s theater,” the Beta replied, holding the dress out towards her, beckoning her to touch it. “It’s heavenly isn’t it?”

Ivy reached out to the neckline of the gown, and now that Millicent had identified it as a costume Ivy could see that the glittering jewels were tinted glass, the panels of the gown laced and meant to be adjusted for many sizes. Nothing that would show under the bright lights of the stage-- nor the dim lights of a ballroom. This was… Without thinking Ivy pictured herself in the gown, hair trailing down her shoulders, and her heart leapt within the cage of her breast.

“They won’t miss it…?” 

“Certainly not for so brief a time. You should have seen the dust I had to beat out of it.”

Ivy chewed her lower lip, tentatively smoothing down the lace that frothed from the neckline beneath rows of glittering faux gems. The smell of the dress, she faintly noted, was like rolling around in a flower shop-- it had clearly been well worn by the Omega actresses of the stage. 

“It comes with darling little slippers too.” Millicent continued, brandishing another, smaller wrapped paper package that had been bundled inside the first. “And of course I took a mask for you as well.”

Ivy’s hand became a trembling fist, and she brought it self consciously to her temple. She _wanted_ this, and of course the moment she realized this longing every protest that had previously fled from her mind crowded back to the forefront of her attention.

“My hair-”

“Half of _every_ debutante’s hair is purchased from a store,” Millicent interrupted. “I already have some pieces in mind from the theater which are more or less your color, we can stitch them right in.”

“H- how are we to get there, then? And how is our disappearance to escape Auntie’s notice?”

“I’ve told Auntie we are going to visit a friend to give her our congratulations on her recent wedding. Not that I needed bother, with the new production opening next month she likely wouldn’t notice if we painted ourselves blue and ran naked around her parlor.”

“And our transport?” Ivy pressed.

“We’ll go across to the theater to change your clothing so that we don’t attract attention leaving the house in fancy dress-- I’ve already arranged for a coachman to pick us up at the back.”

“What makes the coachman trustworthy?” she asked. Millicent’s smirk turned almost sickeningly smug, she stood from the bed and turned to look down upon Ivy with her arms crossed.

“The fact that, when I left Lord Lester’s last party to take a walk in the gardens, I stumbled upon him and the Lord’s niece spooning about in the bushes.” She paused briefly in thought. “Don’t pass that around, mind. If everyone knows about it, it will be useless as blackmail.”

“ _Devious,_ you are.” Ivy’s words should rightly have been admonishing, but instead they came off quite clearly as admiration. 

“Besides,” Millicent continued, “it is not as if he knows the details. I’ll have him believe you’re an actress or a fellow shopgirl.”

Ivy ducked her head, seeing that her sketch had become hopelessly rent. She made to smooth it out on her lap, trying to think of further protests but finding none, and eventually put it to the side. “You’ve been plotting this,” she observed, finally.

“Of course I have!” Millicent cried out, reaching out and clasping her hands. Ivy looked up, suddenly aware of the intensity of her sister’s scent, the wetness of her eyes. “I know you’ve been miserable all season and I can’t stand to witness it-- I have to believe there is something that can be done to bring a smile back to your face and, and I thought to myself, this could be it!” 

“Millicent…” she began, and was uncertain how to continue.

“Please,” the Beta said, pulling Ivy’s hands to her face and kissing her fingers, “please my _dear_ , my _beloved_ sister.”

 _‘Sister’_ burned through Ivy’s heart like the warmth of a hearth in the dead of winter, and she knew she could not hope to hide her grin.

“Ah, there it is! There’s my baby sister’s smile!” Millicent laughed, and there was a youthful, wholesome ring in that laugh that Ivy hadn’t heard since their Ama’s passing. “Say you’ll do it, Ivy,” she begged.

Ivy hesitated for just a moment more before she nodded.

“I’ll do it.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was expecting that Victorians would have some wacky elaborate name for asthma, as they did for basically every other medical condition, but they just called it “asthma” same as us. The More You Know.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~~In which hot Alphas, they have problems too, they are just like you, except they’re hot.~~
> 
>  
> 
> In which matters of the heart, and matters of the form, are much discussed.

Over the past weeks it had became more and more apparent to Zadie that it had been a rather good idea to spend most of her days in the forest. If she could have gotten away with spending her nights there as well, she would have. Christopher had more than once spotted her eyeing the hayloft as a possible alternative to returning to her quarters at end of day. But she was certain Bertram would throw a fit if she did not show her face at breakfast and dinner, and would send out a search party if she'd not overnight at the manor. Most days she was able to resume her systematic examination of the land as if everything were normal. Other mornings-- such when she woke and found Bertram had taken half of her trophy collection off the walls and shoved them in some damp store room, or when he repapered the whole front hallway, or when he pestered her over the breakfast table to allow her hair done up-- she would find herself far too restless and inflamed to give her attention to work, and instead would ride Kismet along some familiar track or to some especially remote landmark to clear her mind. 

Cardenfirth was a robust estate, but Zadie had been exploring it since puphood and had a near perfect map of its major features in her mind by now. Managing the grounds for game and other pursuits had been a fascinating pastime and her sole occupation since the retirement of the former Gamekeeper. This world, at least, was her own. So long as her brother could reap his portion of the profits off the coppices and the game, he left her to do with the rest as she wished. Out in the woods Zadie could put the matter of Bertram’s interference aside and instead give her attention to the natural world around her. So long as she could have her time among the old growth forest, she could return to her home with restored spirit sufficient to sit through an entire dinner with Bertram, no matter how oft the meal was marred by interrogations and orders relating to every last detail of the upcoming party. Still, were Belinda not present to put a warning hand upon his arm every now and again, Zadie might contemplate fleeing into the woods and never looking back. 

Her costume had been a particularly controversial topic. 

Everything about planning this event seemed to become a point of contention between Bertram and she, of course, but given that this point of contention was one Zadie would have to wear for an entire night she was particularly unable to let her brother run roughshod over her wishes with his own ideas. He'd wanted her dressed as some military figure, characters she'd never heard of from operas and stuffy high culture plays. The only one that had sounded even a bit fun was the court jester, but Belinda had delicately informed her after the fact that Bertram had intended this as a joke at her expense, and would not in fact allow for her to go about the ballroom in a form fitting silk jumpsuit. Her brother seemed to consider all of her own ideas too frightful or portentous. It was true that perhaps she should not have made “Red Death” her first suggestion, but Jocelyn had been reading to her from that frightfully fascinating American, Poe, and it had been on her mind. She had, after some further thought, suggested William Tell, but her brother had judged that too morbid. Artemis had also been dismissed on the basis that she was a Beta, and he didn’t seem to care for Zadie pointing out that she was not even _real_. 

If Belinda had not suggested Robin Hood, Zadie suspected the issue would never have been resolved. Which she would have been fine with, if it meant the party was off, but she thought it more likely that it would’ve meant being stuck with one of Bertram's ideas. She doubted he would have thought of something as interesting as Robin Hood. He approved of it, perhaps because it had been Lady Weldwick’s suggestion and perhaps because it fit well with his stringent insistence that she must wear at least a half mask. He would not budge on this matter, though Zadie felt that he was being quite cagey about why such measures would be necessary.

“The point of a masquerade,” he'd answered her one evening over some strange cold soup he'd had his chef prepare for dinner, “as Father always said, is to reveal the true self and have it witnessed. Through disguise, we may see each other in a new light-- as equals, without presuppositions or superficiality. It allows us to put aside assumption and gossip, rumors and reputations, family names and estates. After a season is through everyone believes that they know all they need to know about one another-- the masquerade reminds them they don't.”

Zadie had sat in silence for a minute and Bertram had allowed it, as he could surely see she was consumed in thought.

“Are you sure,” she’d finally spoken, tentative, “that the cook can't just heat the soup up?”

He'd not liked this response, though Zadie couldn't fathom what manner of quarrel he had with it. He'd not asked her a question, nor had his flowery words answered her own. Furthermore, the soup was not simply not hot, it was cold, _iced_ even. She didn't care that Bertram said it was supposed to be served like that, soup was meant to be hot. But once again rather than answer her query he scowled at her across the table and made an announcement.

“An excellent demonstration, Zed, of the need for disguise. The girl you marry must be able to tolerate your _character_ if you are to have any chance of happiness together. As I observed myself over the course of your Season, it is nigh inevitable for most debutantes to become so enchanted by your appearance and your coffers that they neglect to note the utter drivel that flows so freely out of your mouth,” Bertram had said, and then he had not spoken to her for the rest of the night.

Toughest were those days in which she was waylaid from retreating to the forest for several hours by costume fittings. Her one respite at these times was that she had managed to persuade Bertram to allow her customary tailor to attend to her dressing, rather than insist on whatever snobby London tailor he used. Aside from a few visits and initial picking about the design, Bertram left her alone with Jocelyn and the tailor, Mr. Bloom, a Beta who lived in the village on the estate. It wasn't as good as being in the woods, but it was at least decent company.

“I hope,” Jocelyn said a half hour into one such scheduled fittings, narrowing her eyes and plucked at the fabric of Zadie’s long fitted sleeves, “that these have more give than they look to, or she’ll be ripping her seams to pieces every time she flexes a muscle.” 

Mr. Bloom slapped her hand away.

“My daughter knows more about tailoring than I do now, eh?” the Beta grumbled, pointing a withering look at the valet until she stepped back and folded her arms.

“I know how anything this tightly fitted fares with Ms. Everleigh’s form,” she countered, “I was with her when she was climbing trees in dresses.”

“It’s a ball, Jocelyn, not a gymnasium. She should have no reason to exert herself.” 

Jocelyn was silent in that distinct way that she was always silent when she was about to prove a point.

“Ms. Everleigh,” she said, “if you would doff your hat.” 

Zadie reached up to do so, stopping short at the sound of tearing fabric and snapping thread. “Oh.” She looked askance at the damage, the armpit a gash of frayed fabric and the side and inner seams split across her bicep and at her elbow. She smiled sheepishly. “My apologies, Mr. Bloom.” 

The tailor frowned, tapping his foot and looking over the damage. He sent a look towards Jocelyn. If the Alpha felt any vindication Zadie couldn't tell, not even from her scent at a close distance. 

“I'll put in a gusset,” Mr. Bloom concluded, positioning her arm and taking measurements so that he could do so.

“This is why I’m so glad to have you as my tailor. Bertram’s man would probably just insist I go without a hat,” she reflected glumly. “I like a nice jaunty hat you know. Less so the mask.” She considered her reflection, the stiffly shaped leather mask hanging around her neck. She found herself thinking back to her dinner conversation with Bertram, and wondered what it was that he thought was amiss with her character. She’d done that often at her fittings. Not intentionally, but rather because there was so little to divert her attention from the task of mulling over his puzzling words. “Jocelyn, I wonder if you might know quite what Bertram was going on about, at that dinner with the cold soup.” 

“The complex machinations of Lord Weldwick’s innermost mind pose a mystery to many, I am sure.”

“Right. Yet,” Zadie made to turn to Jocelyn, but stopped and returned to her former pose when the Beta cleared his throat a warning. “Yet the way he spoke,” she continued, looking at the other Alpha instead through the mirror, “he made it sound like my character is a _detriment_. As if it is an unpleasant defect, and I am merely a pretty face.”

Zadie recognized a minute softening of the valet’s expression, one which extended to her voice when she next spoke.

“Well, Ms. Everleigh, perhaps we must first ponder how it is _you_ feel about the prospect of charming an Omega without the asset of your ‘pretty face’? You've been out of society for some time. The girls you'll meet at the ball will be ones you've not been acquainted with before, and no doubt their chaperones will be making their own judgements of you.”

“Oh,” Zadie attempted to shrug without too badly interfering with the tailor’s work, “I'm not worried about that. Everyone I meet adores me.”

Mr. Bloom made a sort of coughing noise that seemed to beg exception.

“Save for Bertram.” she allowed.

“Yes, but sometimes it takes them a… little while to get to adore you, Zadie,” Jocelyn replied. “You come off rather strong.”

“I _am_ rather strong. I carried that prize hart all the way back to the manor last year by myself. Do you not recall that?”

“In personality, Ms. Everleigh, not in body.”

“My personality has never caused me trouble in the ballroom before.” Zadie frowned, brows furrowing together.

“True as that may be Ms. Everleigh, it is a not unheard of phenomena that an Alpha of your sort-- that is, one in distinct possession of both handsomeness of form and comfortable wealth, can often get away with social missteps the average Alpha might not so easily overcome.” The skin around Jocelyn’s eyes crinkled ever so slightly in amusement. “Take it from someone not so blessed.” 

Hearing this Zadie turned around at once, her scent and expression stricken, and immediately cupped Jocelyn’s face tightly between her hands.

“You mustn't say that,” she urged. “You are _very_ handsome.” Still clutching her valet by the cheeks, Zadie looked back over her shoulder. “Mr. Bloom, is your daughter not the most handsome Alpha you've ever seen?” she implored the man, who looked up from where he was marking out a shape in chalk on a portion of fabric.

“She's fetching,” he answered, “but _you_ , Alpha, look like Michelangelo carved you out of a block of marble.”

“Ms. Everleigh,” Jocelyn prompted, and Zadie realized that in her passion she’d somewhat smushed the face of the other Alpha, fingers tangling in her hair. 

“Apologies.” She removed her hands and Jocelyn took a step back, taking her hair out of its now disheveled ponytail and smoothing it back into place before retying the black ribbon that kept it pulled back at the nape of her neck. Returning her gaze to her reflection, Zadie sighed. “You are both right. I am too beautiful for my own good.” She took her mask in hand, holding it over her face, a tinge of sorrow coloring her scent. “This must have been how Helen of Troy felt,” she mused.

“We can only speculate,” Jocelyn said, stepping back into place now that her appearance had been righted. “May I venture to give my opinion, Ms. Everleigh?”

“Of course.”

“I am of the mind that any girl who finds your character a detriment-- leaving aside whoever else might agree or disagree with such an assessment-- is not one you’d wish to pursue a partnership with. Once she’s fallen for your mind, she can be unexpectedly delighted to find out you are _also_ handsome.” 

She was right. Which meant that perhaps Bertram was right, but Zadie wasn’t quite ready to concede that point. Especially not to his face.

“It itches, though,” she mumbled.

“Sometimes,” Jocelyn opined with the solemness of a sage, “we must tolerate being itched for the sake of love.”

\---

Ivy sat at the vanity and gazed worriedly into her own eyes, hands clasped tightly in her lap. She rubbed the nail of one thumb with the pad of the other. Millicent was bustling behind her, hairpins between her pursed lips and comb tucked behind her ear. Having sifted through the theater’s collection of chignons and switches, she had been tying ribbons and pinning swags and combing and picking at the part in her hair so much that Ivy was beginning to feel like a dress form at a tailor’s shop.

“It doesn’t blend at all,” she fretted, scrutinizing her reflection, “my hair is so much darker than the pieces.”

“Perhaps a bit darker,” Millicent allowed, squinting as she continued to work, “but not _much_. It is close enough in the gaslight. All we must do to make it fit as a redfern is pile feathers and flowers on any place that might otherwise seem awkward. You Omega girls get extraordinary leeway with your accessories, you know.”

“Perhaps a bonnet,” Ivy offered forth, “to cover up the, the difference.”

Millicent stopped fussing, crossing her arms and blowing a stray strand of her own hair from her face. “You’ll stick out terribly if you wear a _bonnet_ to a masquerade ball. Unless you’re going as a shepherd girl, I suppose, but you're not. In any case, the work is only half done yet, so criticizing it now is rather unfair. Just close your eyes and think about... _birdies_ or something of the sort, to calm yourself down.”

Ivy did her best to comply-- the hacking cry of crows flitting through her mind, the flash of a magpie's lustrous wing. But nothing came substantial enough to keep hold of her, and she found her thoughts shifting anxiously to the night ahead of her. It had been all too simple to agree to this adventure when first it was proposed. Or, perhaps it had not been _easy_ , but it had been a good deal less nerve wracking when the ball took the form of an abstract prospect several days away from realization. With the event now quite real and quite imminent, looming before her with all the inscrutable depth and potential of a summer night sky, she felt very near to quailing. 

Some time passed, thought Ivy could not say how much, her focus upon the here and the now turned blurry and shifting as her thoughts in the warm darkness behind her eyelids. At some point the fussing ceased, and she heard a pleased exclamation from behind her shoulder.

“Look at you,” her sister sighed.

Ivy opened her eyes, then blinked, taking her reflection in full. Ivy felt her breath catch in her throat. She laid her hand above her breastbone, turned her face to one side and that. The fetching updo Millicent had constructed for her was made of braids and twists, spangled with feathers and little flowers made of silk ribbon, with two long curls that trailed beneath it and fell behind her shoulder. She looked, she looked... 

“Beautiful,” Millicent said, the familiar roasted-sweet scent of her happiness detectible the intimate space. 

Ivy could only nod in awe.

“No one shall know it’s you,” the Beta decreed proudly. Ivy felt water gather in her eyes, blinked hard. She was glad for the cacophonous floral scent of her dress, for it covered up the sour note that rose in her scent at the words.

“Yes,” she agreed, fussing with the finger curls that made up her bangs “No one shall know it is me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Bertram comes off as an ass here but like, imagine being an insecure square and the Most Boring Alpha In England and having a stone cold lesbian disaster of a younger sister who's both taller AND hotter than you and flirts with your wife incessantly, and every time you try to have a profound heart to heart or earnestly impart advice to her it looks like she's listening and then she asks you how many dinner rolls you think she could fit in her mouth at once.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which what regrettably constitutes the scope of Zadie’s deductive skill is demonstrated.

A servant passed by on his way to the refreshment room carrying a tray with small portions of artfully arranged oysters wrapped in bacon. Zadie plucked one from the tray by the little pick spearing it.

“I'm concerned about these tiny foods, Bertram,” she confided to the other Alpha, looking over the morsel. “They are all together too small to provide a meal to any but the most miniscule Omega.”

Bertram sighed. “They're called _hors d'oeuvres_ , Zed, and their purpose is to tide the guests over until supper.”

“Are the foods at supper to be tiny as well?”

“No, Zed, they are to be regularly sized. Where has your Alpha gone?”

“Jocelyn?” she inquired through a mouthful of oyster. “After she helped me dress she went off somewhere. Oh! She said to tell you that since your butler has demanded she act as waiter, I am to be your albatross now. Not sure what she means by that.” She noted a sheen of grease on her fingers, wiped it absently off on the side of her tunic. “Type of seabird, is it not?”

“Fantastic,” Bertram said, though he did not seem terribly excited. Perhaps nervousness about the party was subduing his tone.

“It would have to be a fantastic bird, certainly, if I'm supposed to be one,” she mused. She laid a comforting hand on Bertram's shoulder, wishing to assuage his anxiety. “Bertram, I know you've been feeling me as a thorn in your side these past weeks-- and perhaps there was more I could have done to blunt the edges of me which stick you, but did not. If I can for a moment take a less prideful, more... Beta-like perspective, it is evident that you are being generous with your time and work and money to me, despite my hesitations and our disagreements.”

“I…” Her brother’s face softened, and there was a shift in his scent that was almost affectionate. “I appreciate your apology, Zed.” Well, it hadn't really been meant as an apology, but if Bertram wished it to be Zadie would not spoil his happiness by correcting him. “For all you may lack in humility, you have a good heart, and I’ve never known you to mean ill. I… I really do think you will do well in matrimony.” 

Spirits hoisted by his receptive response, Zadie grinned and set immediately to work thinking of what she might say to maintain this environment of friendliness. “You are a fantastic bird yourself, though doubtless in a different way than I. Is there a bird that is wonderful at organizing parties? Perhaps a goose, since they are always in flocks? Bertram you are an absolute goose.” Unfortunately Bertram did not seem as pleased by this. “Maybe a vulture, rather, as they often gather over a meal?” she ventured. Her brother looked upon her hand on his shoulder, the tenderness gone from his gaze, and sighed.

“Unhand me will you, Alpha, for you have quite ruined the sentiment of the moment.”

Ah. Two steps forward one step back, as it always seemed to be between them. Zadie moved away, reaching beneath her mask to scratch under her eye where the material was rubbing against her skin unpleasantly. 

“When are you going to put on your fancy dress, Alpha?” she asked after a moment, noting her brother’s pristine but rather boring black dinner jacket.

“I'm not wearing a costume. I've no need to. I’m a mated man.”

“And mated men cannot have fun? Is that why you want me married off, brother, so that I can be alike to you?”

Bertram did not respond, but turned away from her with a funny little hunch to his shoulders. Evidently he was too anxious to make light conversation, and Zadie had already upset him once, so she felt rather stuck. 

Zadie was saved, as she’d many times found herself saved of late, by the arrival of her brother's wife. The Beta appeared dressed as a lady of antiquity, white sheets draped and pinned over a light summer dress and a laurel wreath made out of paper around the crown of her head.

“Ah _ha!_ ” Zadie’s eyes lit up immediately and she skipped her way over to Belinda, grinning back at Bertram. “You see brother, _Lady_ Weldwick is in the spirit!”

Bertram looked rather distraught, scuttling over to the both of them with his shoulders still hunched. “Belinda,” he said in a hushed tone, “you didn't tell me you were planning this.”

His wife blinked owlishly at him.

“You were busy with the preparations, dear,” she said, tilting her head with a guileless smile. “I supposed that you'd have no interest in dressing fancy, and so that there was no need worry that we match exactly.”

Bertram shuffled his feet and looked over his own clothes, frowning. “But now we most decidedly do _not_ match in the slightest.”

“ _Bertie_ ,” Belinda whispered, a crinkle appearing at the bridge of her nose from her teasing grin, “why would we be anything but the perfect match?” 

Bertram looked to the side as if scrutinizing the wallpaper, his scent taking on a tone of warmth that seemed to be his version of a blush. 

“I could change, I suppose,” Belinda offered, a tinge of disappointment in her voice. Bertram made another pained face.

“No, no of course not,” he smoothed his gloved hands over his lapels, “I will change.”

Zadie rolled her eyes. As always, the Beta could push Bertram over with her pinkie when Zadie's whole weight couldn't budge her brother a hair. 

“You two must save all this flirting for later on, now,” she announced, putting her fists to her hips, “for I've no intention of allowing your love-making to delay this ball. The sooner I meet the girl I’ll marry, the sooner she and I can join in on your filly and foal show.”

“Of course, Zadie,” Belinda laughed. “We’ll sort this out, won’t we Bertie?”

Zadie did not stay to hear her brother’s response, but moved on straight away to the library which abutted the grand hall, where Bertram had directed her to sit in wait until at least half past the hour. Normally she would have found it easy to settle into one of the armchairs and partake of a nap, but she was impatient to get this ball done and over with. Instead she sat and stared at her pocket watch, tracking the minute hand until it at last reached six and she was free to rise to her feet and come into the ballroom. 

The first task Zadie set to was circling the room, pacing about the perimeter until she'd gotten the lay of the grand hall as it had been altered by the presence of guests and by Bertram’s decorations. There seemed a rather disproportionate representation of Omegas among the guests of marriageable age-- enough that two separate clusters had formed. There were a number of eligible Beta men and a few eligible Alphas, as well as the typical assortment of chaperones. She couldn’t spot many Beta women, though of course they were often difficult to spot in ballrooms, the deeper colors of their clothes blending in with the suits in the shadows of the gaslit walls. After she’d acclimating herself Zadie set her focus on the larger of the two clusters, which circulated close to the center of the hall. Approached it directly, she was pleased to find she already had the attention of several ladies, their eyes tracking her from behind their feathered masks.

“Good Evening, Ladies.” She doffed her hat, glad to find the fabric of her sleeve holding this time, and gave a dramatic bow with a jauntily crossed leg. “It is I, Dame Robin Hood of Sherwood Forest,” she announced, enjoying the playacting part of the masquerade at least. At any other event she would have to procure an introduction, but the guise of the masquerade allowed for a bit more liberty.The Omegas nearby her giggled, a sound which spread easily through the cluster and attracted more eyes to her. She basked comfortably in their attention, smiling broadly. 

“I wish to know if any of you fine creatures might bestow upon me the pleasure of an introduction,” she asked as she rose from her bow, hat held to her chest. The Omegas attending to her responded with more tittering, some hushed whispers which Zadie’s ears were not quite keen enough to catch. The cluster reshuffled so that a few select girls, those feeling bold enough to respond to her invitation, might come towards the edge. After some cajoling and more giggles, an Omega dressed in crisp light blue, her dress dotted with down feathers and small glimmering white gems, stepped forwards.

“Good Evening, Dame Robin Hood,” she said, blue eyes sparkling behind her white silk and down-feather domino mask. “I am Winter's First Snowfall.” She offered her hand, which Zadie knelt to kiss.

“Lady Snowfall,” she greeted. “May I have the honor of this next dance with you?”

“You may indeed, Alpha.”

Zadie offered her arm and guided the Omega onto the dance floor, where the prior song had just a short moment ago come to its end. As the quartet began the next set, they took their positions and began to dance together.

“I must confide to you, Dame Robin Hood,” Lady Snowfall said after spending some time silently contemplating what little she could see of Zadie’s face, “we have been chattering about you some.”

Zadie nodded. It made perfect sense to her that she’d been a topic of discussion among the cluster. She was aware that she was attractive to the fairer gender, being well formed by her work out in the woods, tall and broad in a way that Omegas particularly tended to appreciate. She was a spectacular specimen of Alphahood, something a simple mask would not be sufficient to obscure. 

“We cannot pick out just who you are, you see,” Lady Snowfall continued, a delicate squint shifting her features. 

“That is the purpose of a masquerade, is it not?” Zadie countered, smiling gently in amusement.

“Purportedly… but surely one would be able to identify an individual such as yourself even in disguise. Lady Alphas are still a rare presence among society, and you are quite _distinct_ in stature. You couldn’t be Miss. Straffton, and certainly not poor Lady Tabitha. We thought that perhaps you might be a relation of his grace, the Duke of Asterly, or else perhaps a heretofore unknown Idlewind sister.” 

“I am sorry to say, Lady Snowfall, that I cannot resolve that mystery for you just yet.”

“And I should apologise, on my behalf and that of the other girls, for for making you a subject of scrutiny, Dame Robin Hood. You see, there are few other bachelors here to gossip about.” Lady Snowfall’s slight smile drooped. “I suppose the rest of the Alphas are all at some club about now, mooning after that dear _Mr. Farrow_.” Her voice was strangely bitter in the speaking of the unfamiliar name. “I’m sure you, too, would much rather be dancing with him,” Lady Snowfall muttered, and her soft floral scent took on a note of irritation like the bite of an overapplied perfume.

“I am sure the lad is nice enough, but I don’t much care for men.” Zadie shrugged before smiling down at the girl in her arms. “So I assure you, I much prefer to dance with you.”

Lady Snowfall blinked her becoming cornflower eyes-- so blue that even the yellowing gaslight could not fade their hue-- and then smiled dreamilly, letting out a little laugh.

“Oh Alpha, you know _just_ what to say to a Lady.”

Regrettably there was little time left in the song for them to get to know each other further, but Zadie took heart in Lady Snowfall’s clear implication that she would not be adverse to sharing another dance. 

When the Alpha came to return Lady Snowfall to the cluster she was a bit startled-- but hardly surprised-- to find another Omega immediately offering her gloved hand. Zadie proceeded in quick fashion to dance with a half dozen more Omegas from this cluster, being passed from one partner to the next in a similarly efficient matter. She found her dance partners pleasant, and the songs passed without event until she took a set with a lady dressed as “Sun Setting.” Lady Setting, clad in a dress which transitioned gradually from pale sky blue at the neckline to a soft orange at the hem, the fabric striped with softly painted clouds of purple and pink, watched Zadie take her hand with a hint of scrutiny in her stare.

“Is this your premier in society?” Lady Setting asked, wasting not one minute after being escorted to the floor before launching into conversation. “I haven’t seen you at any events this season.”

“I haven’t been a part of this social season,” Zadie replied. “Busy with my work, you see.” 

Lady Setting narrowed her eyes. 

“And what _is_ your work, Alpha?” she asked.

“Oh, I am the gamekeeper here,” Zadie cheerfully answered, then sucked in air through her teeth as she became cognizant of her misstep. “Oh. Oops. I was not supposed to tell you that.”

“Forgive me I’ve, I’ve surely misheard you, Alpha.” Lady Setting sounded quite wary, even a bit frightened, though Zadie was uncertain what she said that might rouse such a feeling in the little one. “You work as a _what_?”

“A gamekeeper,” Zadie repeated, enunciating carefully, for she well knew how words could become lost in the murmur of the ballroom. She frowned suddenly, remembering Bertram’s adamancy that she keep her identity a secret. “Please don’t tell the Earl about this, he’ll be cross with me.”

Lady Setting paled, and despite Zadie’s efforts to ask after her interests the rest of their dance was spent with the Omega enclosed in icy silence. Zadie dutifully escorted Lady Setting back to the cluster, where she immediately began whispering to the nearby Omegas, their heads popping up to regard Zadie with wide eyes before dipping to hear more. Zadie knit her brows together beneath her mask. She hoped that Lady Setting was not telling of her identity, for it was sure to get back to Bertram and he was just as sure to make a fuss about it. She decided that perhaps it would be wise to try the smaller cluster, and so she set over towards them. The Omegas in this secondary cluster were quite demure at the first, but with some apparent encouragement from her friends a rather delicate Omega in a rustic sort of costume stepped forward and introduced herself as a “Milkmaid,” accepting Zadie’s offer of a dance.

“May I ask, Alpha, what it is you like to do to pass the time?” Lady Milkmaid asked once their dance had begun. 

“I like to…” _ride through the grounds, learning all I can about the animals and greenery that occupy Cardenfirth_ , her mind supplied, but she bit her tongue. She would not let herself be caught so easily a second time. “...to spend time admiring the beauty of the natural world.” Lady Milkmaid smiled, exposing pearl white teeth.

“Oh, I do love animals,” she said, her scent blossoming.

“So do I,” Zadie exclaimed, excited at having found an alike spirit. “I am an accomplished deer stalker, you know.” Zadie looked up, forgetting her trophies had been moved elsewhere and thus could not be indicated towards as proof of her prowess, then looked down to see mild horror crossing her dance partner’s expression. “Lady Milkmaid?”

"You, you do not kill the fuzzy little creatures do you?" she asked, her voice trembling and her eyes wide in horror. _Oh dear._ Lady Milkmaid must think her an entirely unscrupulous stalker, the kind which preyed on fawns and shot doe indiscriminately.

"Ideally, I only kill their fathers," she was quick to reassure, giving a placating grin which did not land at all right judging by the paleness of the girl's face and the stiffness in her arms. When the song came to a close the Omega did not wait to be escorted, but nearly barrelled back to her cluster as if the devil himself were in pursuit of her. By the time Zadie had gathered her wits sufficiently to attempt an apology the cluster had already turned against her as one, scents sharp and fans brandished defensively. 

Recognizing that poor luck had gotten the best of her in this matter, Zadie returned to the larger cluster to find that they too had hardened to her. They flashed their fans in a cacophony of noise and air, pushing her scent away from them with wrinkled noses and hostile scowls. Zadie could not at first fathom what had upset them, and they showed no keenness to explain. Perhaps they felt she’d proved herself dishonorable in revealing her identity. Perhaps they’d seen Lady Milkmaid fleeing and thought the worst of her. In any case, the message they sent was unambiguous.

If her father were alive, he would surely disapprove of her backing away from this wall of animosity. _An Alpha is relentless_ , her father had oft said, and she’d oft heard repeated. But Zadie did not have the resolve to push an Omega into discomfort, nor did she particularly wish that she were the sort of Alpha who did. Picking Omegas off the edges through trickery and intimidation, in defiance of their wishes, struck her as entirely dishonorable. 

Unfortunately, this left her in a rather awkward position of having no engagements to dance, and she was forced to return to the outskirts of the dance floor to contemplate her strange misfortunes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry guys I SWEAR they meet in the next chapter okay Zadie's just too much fun to write


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our fated lovers meet at long last, only to be parted.

An unusual sight caught Zadie’s eye as she circled the ballroom in the wake of her rejection: an Omega wallflower. Though too distant to scent she _must_ be an Omega-- small and clothed in the palest gold, a shade like sun dried hay and barley which made the dark hair tumbling to her shoulders all the starker. Zadie’s eyes had alit on the slip of a girl once while dancing, and she’d assumed the little one must be deciding between clusters or perhaps searching for some of Bertram’s tiny foods. Yet several songs had passed since then, and the Omega still remained in place as if rooted to her spot by the wall. Her thoughts diverted from her lack of success by this oddity, Zadie searched for the little one’s chaperone and was aggrieved when she could not spot one. 

A lone Omega, bereft of cluster or chaperone, was likely to become imperiled in a setting such as this. Zadie knew there were many an Alpha who, in the custom of wolves, would isolate the most vulnerable from the herd to prey upon. She certainly looked as prey, her wide eyes staring forward and her teeth gnawing upon her lower lip. Distracted entirely from her former ruminations, Zadie took care to approach the girl surreptitiously. She’d not want to alert anyone unsavory to the Omega’s vulnerability.

“Pardon me, my Lady?” she murmured once she’d gotten within a few feet of the girl, making a small bow. When she raised her head again she found herself struck immediately by the Omega’s eyes, shining and somewhat lost in focus. She seemed as if she might be looking right through the revellers, right through the walls of the hall even, and out into some profound distance of thought. It was a moment before Zadie realized she’d not been heard.

“My Lady?” she repeated, taking another step forward and raising her voice a hair.

The Omega blinked slowly, as if coming out of a dream, and looked to her sides with an air of confusion that suggested she was searching to see who Zadie might be referring to. She glanced surreptitiously towards Zadie and, upon realizing the Alpha’s attention was upon herself, stiffened like she’d seen a gorgon, muscles still as marble and eyes round. A golden mask covered much of her face, but Zadie could make out the tip of a snub nose. 

A memory came to Zadie’s mind in full vividness-- her a child on the grounds of Cardenfirth, unintentionally cornering a rabbit kit and feeling so terribly monstrous for making so mild and delicate a creature freeze in terror. The longing that she had felt, that she could speak with a rabbit’s voice and tell the beast that she meant no harm to it, rather than just look away and let the thing bolt. She’d been so concerned for ensuring the Omega’s safety, she’d forgotten that she’d seem just as much a threat as any other Alpha.

“My sincerest apologies, my Lady,” she quickly said, turning her hands out placatingly and taking a quarter step back to give the Omega more space. “I had no intention to alarm you. I shall remove myself from your company immediately, should you wish to dismiss me.” 

The Omega blinked rapidly a few times, muscle shifting in her jaw as she came gradually out of her spell of petrification. She opened her mouth, shut it, shook her head mutely.

“I do not wish to impose upon you, my Lady.” Zadie attempted to give a reassuring smile. “It is only that, in seeing a lone songbird without her flock, I am compelled to ensure that she is not imperiled by whatever hawks may abound. I forget, at times, that I look to be a hawk too.”

“The, the forgiveness is mine to beg, Alpha,” the girl replied, voice soft and rising in pitch sharply as she spoke. “I was merely lost in thought. I do appreciate your consideration towards my welfare.”

Relieved she had not caused offense, Zadie leaned down slightly so that she might speak softly to the little one without overly crowding her. “Do you need an escort to bring you to the cluster? Or perhaps some stalwart company, while you await your chaperone’s return?”

“I need for nothing, Alpha,” the Omega replied. She made a little noise of panic, as if suddenly remembering something crucial, and fumbled to take out a fan which had been tucked into her dress by the hip. She seemed a bit unpracticed with it, taking a few flicks to open it fully. She hovered the fan over her lower face anxiously, as if her mask alone were not sufficient disguise.

“Well, clearly you need for diversion,” Zadie pointed out. “A ball is meant for dancing, yet here you are on the sidelines. Did some scoundrel put his name down upon your dance card and then renege?” 

“None have yet asked me to dance, I am sorry to admit.” She laughed as she spoke, but there was a sadness to the little one’s admission, a sorrow which lingered in her eyes like the aftertaste of a wine that had begun to turn. Zadie considered this for a moment, straightening her posture before giving another bow, this time with all the theatrics.

“I am Dame Robin Hood,” she said “And you are?” . 

“I am...?” the Omega echoed, tilting her head in confusion before quickly straightening it, avoiding what might seem a submissive gesture.

“Your costume-” Zadie began, but then, feeling the thrill of a prospective challenge, changed her mind. “Perhaps I can guess it! Do not tell me yet.” She put her fingers to her chin in thought and looked carefully over the Omega’s dress, at the delicate golden brown color and the arc of the wide flat skirt. 

“Ah,” she said, hitting upon the solution in short order, “you must be a broom.”

“Uhm,” the Omega replied, looking down at her own costume and then up, meeting Zadie’s eyes with caution, “y yes.”

“Lady Dustbroom, then.” Curiosity satisfied, Zadie offered her hand. “Now that we are introduced, we can dance.” 

The little one’s eyes darted briefly to the side, then to the proffered hand, then to Zadie’s face. The slight trembling of the fan she brandished like a shield revealed that anxiety was once more threatening to take hold of her. Realizing she must have overstepped, Zadie made to pull back her hand, but that Lady Dustbroom quickly darted forward and clutched the Alpha’s fingers tightly in her own. 

“I, I should like to dance, Dame Robin Hood,” she said, sounding half as if she were trying to persuade herself. She took the fan away from her face and tucked it back into the folds of her dress, straightening her spine in a slow and deliberate motion. Her lips, now that she’d ceased chewing upon them, proved unusually full and pursed, parted ever so slightly so that Zadie could make out a flash of her teeth. She guided the Omega to the dance floor, where at first Lady Dustbroom had some trouble following the steps, stumbling slightly. Zadie slowed until the little one found her rhythm, and then gradually resumed a pace fitting to the music.

"It is quite beautiful, the countryside,” the Omega blurted once she had properly acclimated to the motions of the dance. “How I wish I could spend my days on an estate such as this.”

“It is quite grand, is it not?” Zadie replied, pleased to have her work noticed. “There is nothing better for the body or the spirit than to live close to the natural world, I think.”

“I agree entirely, Alpha,” Lady Dustbroom said, a soft smile dusting her lips for a moment before just as quickly vanishing. “Regrettably, I haven’t known such opportunities in a long while.”

“Oh?” Zadie prompted, curiosity roused.

“Before my-” Her voice caught and her eyes darted away from Zadie’s, fixing briefly at the collar of her tunic before coming back up to her face. “...That is, when I was younger, I liked to sit and observe birds. They have such charming habits. There was a nest of magpies that I enjoyed sitting by and sketching in the afternoons. I, I know it should sound so fancifully sentimental to say this, but I... miss them at times.”

“Did they move away?” 

Lady Dustbroom shook her head, the feathers in her coiffeur bobbing along with the motion. “I did, rather. I had to relocate to London. For a while I was able, at least on occasion, to go to the parks. There are not as many magpies there, but abundances of crows and jackdaws, of which I am also rather fond.”

“It occurs to me, Lady Dustbroom, that while Omegas are oft associated with birds, they are generally the cheerier sorts of birds, little birds of song and of the tropics and the like.” 

“Those are fine, of course, but there is something about the corvidae. They are ever so clever, though commonly maligned. Although,” she laughed, and this time it was light as the foam of newly poured champagne tickling the rim of a crystal flute, “perhaps it is precisely their dark horse nature that draws my affection. In the park close to, close to where I live, there was a collection of crows that-" she stopped herself suddenly, flushing.

"That?" she prompted when Lady Dustbroom did not continue.

"You would laugh at me, were I to say it," the girl near whispered, eyes averted to their feet, “and if you have not yet concluded me a fool, you would certainly do so.” 

"I would sooner die than mock the sincerity of an Omega,” she swore.

"...I like to think that we became friends."

"The crows and you?"

"You promised not to mock me!" Lady Dustbroom squeaked in warning, the flush of her cheeks just barely visible at the lower edge of her mask.

“I am doing no such thing," Zadie said, hoping her scent may carry forth her sincerity. “I fully believe you. They are remarkable creatures, are they not?” She grinned fondly, an old memory rising to mind “The former gamekeeper told me that they can recognize faces and remember them for years-- he used to pay them a reward of peanuts in exchange for forewarning him when they spotted strangers on the grounds.” 

Lady Dustbroom’s eyes went round, and her strangely intense floral scent sweetened ever so slightly.

“Oh, how wonderful,” the Omega breathed, and this time the smile that lit her face was not as a mere flicker but a hearty flame that Zadie wished might burn forever.

“When he was young he found an injured crow upon a path and took it in to his cabin to heal. He set the fellow’s wing and gave it some water and fruit, and let it out once it improved. He told me, and he swore upon his life it was true, that three months after there was a knock at his door-”

“The same bird?” Lady Dustbroom blurted intently.

“He thought so, but if it was not then the tale is perhaps even more remarkable. You see, he found by his doorstep another crow, this one with a mangled leg, and a whole circle of them just out of reach, watching him."

“He’d earned their trust.”

“He-” It suddenly occurred to Zadie that they were dancing without music. So consumed had she been in conversation that she’d not noticed the song had ended-- moreover, that the next was beginning, making it pertinent to leave the dancefloor in short order. With no small amount of disappointment Zadie prepared to guide her dance partner off the floor, but found herself halted when the little one, rather than following her lead, kept her feet planted and gripped her hand tightly.

“Lady Dustbroom?”

“Stay, Alpha,” the girl said, words barely audible in the swelling music of the next waltz. She clutched tightly to the fabric of her tunic and leaned close, so that a spare tendril of her hair brushed against Zadie’s chest. Her eyes were wet behind her mask. Zadie could not make out their precise hue in the dim light-- but so close, she could see dark mottled spots in her irises like speckled eggshell, a pinto pony, the dancing shadows cast by leaves in the wind. “Please,” she whispered, and Zadie thought then that there must be such a thing as an Omega Voice, surely, because she could no more disappoint this Omega than she could pluck the sun from the summer sky, no more disobey than strain the salt out of the sea.

"Of course," she replied, taking gentle hold of the Omega’s right hand and encircling her left arm lightly around her middle so that they might begin. Lady Dustbroom’s scent was strangely unplaceable in its complexity, for it seemed almost as if it were a dozen scents at once, as she stared resolutely ahead and they took the first steps. Were she taller, her gaze might have pointed over Zadie’s shoulder, but by the disparity in their height the little one was left scrutinizing the pin which affixed the Alpha’s cape in place over her chest. Zadie allowed the girl her silent contemplation-- for even without the tell of her scent it was clear she was submerged in a turmoil of emotion, though Zadie could not follow exactly how she’d suddenly become so embroiled.

“I am so sorry, Alpha,” she said after a few minutes, eyes still focused on her cloak pin. “I know not what came over me. I… I simply… I did not wish to…” She closed her eyes tight, and Zadie could see the shine of moisture on her eyelashes.

“Perhaps I am a selfish Alpha, Lady Dustbroom,” she murmured, “for in this moment I cannot help but be ever so glad that you found yourself in solitude among the crowds-- for if not, I may not have seen you, and we may not be dancing now.”

“You are glad?” Her voice was weighted with incredulity. “Even while you’d offered the first out of pity?”

“Out of pity?” Zadie repeated, entirely confused now. “I suppose I _do_ feel pity for those Alphas and Betas who were not so fortunate as to take notice of your brilliance, but I cannot puzzle out why that pity would compel me to dance with you. If anything, I am quite heartless in this matter, for I would be quite content should I have the honor of your company all to myself.” 

Lady Dustbroom looked up at her and laughed a delicate laugh.

“You have an unusual way of thinking, Dame Robin Hood.”

Zadie frowned slightly.

“I’ve been told it marks me as quite odd.”

“Well, I think it is wonderful,” Lady Dustbroom said with shining eyes and a firmness that would allow for no argument. “Let no one make you ashamed of it.”

Zadie gazed into the Omega’s speckled eyes, the curve of her lips in smile, the softness of her cheeks, and she felt suddenly quite reckless.

“Would it be terribly impertinent of me to ask your name, Omega?”

“I-” she began, then hesitated, swallowed. “I call myself Evangeline.”

“Lady Evangeline.” She held each syllable in her mouth like a precious jewel. “What a beautiful name. Perfectly suited to a beautiful girl like you.”

Lady Evangeline looked down, then back up, and Zadie noted a trembling of her chin that had not been there before, the return of wetness to her eyes. Something almost sour rose in the undertones of her scent.

"My Lady?" Zadie asked, stricken that she’d said something to disturb her partner to tears.

"I do not want it to end," the Omega croaked, voice just a bit sharper and deeper than before.

"Must it, end?" she asked, wholly uncertain what it is that Lady Evangline wished to continue, but just as wholly certain she would do anything to ensure it did. Suddenly it did not seem such an ordeal to strain each grain of salt from the seven seas, nor to bring a star to the ground, should this Omega ask it.

Lady Evangeline was silent for some time, gazing at their feet, before shaking her head.

"It must. The situation I am in…” Her voice trembled, and the pain in it slipped through Zadie’s ribs and stole the air from her lungs like a mortal knife wound. “It is... impossible.”.

"Little one,” she murmured, “you must realize the consequences of saying something is 'impossible' to an Alpha,"

“Perhaps I know just what I am doing, Alpha.” She smiled, though there was a wry sort of sadness to it. 

The music slowed, and so too did their dance, but now it was Zadie who could not imagine parting. There was something about this Omega. Something that made her feel fierce and reckless and bound to some great duty and honor beyond her ken.

“Come, you must bring me back now, Dame Robin Hood,” Lady Evangeline said, though she clearly did not cherish the prospect herself. 

“May I dance with you again, Lady Evangeline?” Zadie asked, breathless in hope, searching what she could see of the Omega’s face. Lady Evangeline shook her head, quickly wiping the tears from her cheeks.

“We’ve already drawn attention, I’m sure, by dancing twice in a row. Thrice would make a spectacle of us.” 

“It need not be this moment, this ball,” Zadie rushed to say. “Only, only some day.”

“I…” The space in which the Omega measured her words had a sacred quality to it-- in its vastness, in its emptiness. Finally she fixed her mind, lifting her head to meet Zadie’s eyes. “I would like that. Yes. If it should be possible... I would like to dance with you again, Alpha.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the clock strikes midnight.

“We must leave straight away,” Ivy blurted the moment she spotted her sister approaching her. Millicent paused in the midst of raising her arm to offer Ivy one of the two glasses of lemonade she clutched, blinked.

“We said we were going to stay until supper.”

Ivy shook her head so frantically that she felt one of the swags of hair affixed to her head loosen. She reached up, fumbling to repin it. “We must leave straight away, or I shall do something foolish,” she said all at once, feeling lost in a tumble of thoughts and emotions which threatened to make her scent known over even the overpowering perfume of her dress.

“Foolish?” Millicent asked.

“Terribly foolish.”

“Did something happen while I was fetching refreshment?” Millicent’s face turned grave. “Did someone mistreat you?” she whispered, leaning closer.

“ _Millie_ ,” Ivy urged, the childhood nickname slipping from her lips in her frantic desperation to escape the ballroom before found herself swept up once more in madness. Before she rushed back into that Alpha’s arms, before she had the chance to revealed something-- to the Alpha, to her own heart-- that could only prove ruinous. “I just need to leave.”

“All right, we shall slip out then, but,” the Beta shoved the lemonade forward, “at least drink this as we go. I had to get through such a crush to get it, and it’s torturously hot in here.”

Ah, so it was not just Ivy who felt overly warm. That was, perhaps, some small relief. She took the glass with a shaking hand. Millicent gulped her own down and, after glancing about, knelt to put it down on the floor, then stood and put a guiding hand to Ivy’s shoulder. Ivy put her own glass to her lips. The iced drink, sweet and tart in equal parts, seemed to clear her sinuses of the heavy scent of the ballroom, or at least have a somewhat cooling effect upon her. By the time Millicent had navigated them back through the lady’s dressing room to the front door Ivy felt her senses to be mostly restored, though not enough to wish to return to the ballroom, where she could easily slip back into whatever mad glamour had taken ahold of her earlier.

The footman at the door looked at them with some concern.

“My Lady, your cloak,” he prompted. Ivy faltered for a second before remembering she’d not come in with one. 

“Here,” Millicent grunted, taking Ivy’s empty glass from her hand and thrusting it towards the footman, who took it instinctively. When he didn’t move to open the door of his own accord Millicent reached for the knob herself, which was enough to shock him into belatedly darting forward to open it.

Ivy felt a sting of panic, for in her rush she had not thought to have her kerchief ready to cover her mouth and nose, but only for a brief moment before she remembered they were not in the capital anymore. Out in the country the air might serve to refresh her, rather than choke her. She drew in a deep breath of it-- clear and crisp and cooled by night-- and felt a good deal more clearheaded under the dim moonlight. Millicent supported her arm as they made their way down the front steps of the house and onto the path that would take them around to where their coach waited. 

The coachman, a young Beta fellow, was smoking a cigarette when they approached, the ember of it glowing in the dark. He looked up at the sound of their nearing footfalls and hurriedly put it out. Ivy sought her fan out from within the folds of her dress, opening it and placing it before her face. Though her mask already obscured most of her face, it made her less anxious to add the shield of her fan to her guise. Millicent waved the coachman off, carefully helping Ivy ascend into the carriage herself-- no mean feat with her broad skirt. The Beta then lifted herself into the coach, collapsing in the seat with a groan. The coachman stood awkwardly next to the body of the coach, his head at the level of their ankles, as he peered up at Millicent through the open doorway.

“Done already?” he quirked a skeptical brow.

“Yes, Broderick,” Millicent replied dryly, jerking her thumb towards the ceiling, “so get on up with you, we’ll be returning to the theater now.” Brokerick looked as if he might say something, his eyes passing momentarily over to Ivy’s face, but that Millicent reached over and made to pull the door closed rather forcefully. He cussed and ducked out of the way rather than risk having his head smacked. There was a moment of quiet after this in which Ivy dared peer out of the window, brushing the curtain aside to see the lit windows of the manor they’d just left. She heard the coachman check the horse, then clambour on top, and finally she felt the jerk of the coach beginning to move forwards. 

“So,” Millicent said, thumping her head back against the upholstered wall and crossing her arms, “are you planning to tell me why it was we had to make such a hasty exit?”

Ivy cringed slightly. Yes, what _was_ she to say about that? That she’d almost lost her mind entirely? All because an Alpha had danced with her and attended to her and listened to her natter on? All because an Alpha had called her a beautiful girl and she’d felt... she’d felt _real_ for what seemed like the first time in her _life_?

“While you were gone, I danced with an Alpha,” she managed.

Millicent immediately perked to attention, back straightening and alarm filling her scent.

“Worry not, Millicent, she was a perfect gentlewoman,” Ivy rushed to reassure, putting her hand forward to stay Millicent from leaping out of the coach and running back to the manor to wreak vengeance on her behalf.

“Oh.” The Beta slumped slightly in relief, then straightened again. “ _Oh_ ,” she repeated, this time with a sort of knowing tone, and in the faint moonlight that came through the windows of the coach Ivy could see her smile spreading. Ivy could not see her own face, but she knew she must be flushed redder than a beet. “Handsome, was she?”

Ivy furrowed her brows.

“It was difficult to tell, her face was quite obscured by her mask, but she was very…” Ivy struggled for words with which to describe the gregariousness, the warmth of her presence-- the strength in her hands and the gentleness of her touch. She thought of the soft dark green velvet of the Alpha’s tunic and hooded cape, her silk stockings making conspicuous the sinewy muscles of her legs. She thought of the taut bowstring across her body and how it drew attention to the bulk of her broad chest, of her hands in supple leather gloves. The Alpha had looked like a spirit come out of the primeval woods, a hunter graceful as Nimrod. “...tall,” she finished weakly. She lifted the fingertips of her hand to her mouth, soft kid against delicate skin, and realized with embarrassment that she was searching for a trace of the Alpha's scent in her gloves. She was too near to her heat, that must be it. There was no other way of making sense of this mad pull she felt. Too near her heat and too lonely and too desperately giddy about, about the way the Alpha had looked at her and _seen_ her. “She was so very _kind_.”

“Tell me all,” Millicent gushed, leaning forward to rest her elbows to her knees and clutch her cheeks in her hands. “What did you talk about?” Ivy closed her eyes and thought back, the faintest scent of woodsmoke and pine whispering from her gloves and tingling at the palate of her mouth.

“Birds.”

“Birds?” Millicent echoed incredulously. “And what else?” she pressed.

Nothing she could bear to burden Millicent with. “Nothing else. Just... birds.”

Millicent groaned and covered her face totally with her hands. 

“Ivy, my God.”

“It is just that,” she paused, her breath straining against the stays of her costume, “that when our set was over, it felt as if there were so many eyes upon me all of the sudden. I felt as if panic might overtake me should I remain. You know how prone I am to, to _stress fevers_ , especially with my course nearing. I did not wish to risk it.” That, at least, was most of the truth. Millicent needn’t know of the rest of the thoughts that had swirled through Ivy’s mind in that moment.

Millicent sighed, leaning back. “I suppose then that leaving straight away _was_ sensible.” Her mouth twitched in a frown. “I just… wish you could have enjoyed it a bit longer.”

“I as well,” Ivy admitted. 

They sat in silence for a period before their quietude was interrupted by the gurgling of Ivy’s stomach, reminding her that she’d had hardly anything to eat since lunch. Millicent reached into the pocket of her skirt, removing something wrapped in a cloth napkin and a blue ribbon. She tossed it underhanded to Ivy, who caught the bundle reflexively.

“What is this?” she asked.

“One of those little roasted birds,” Millicent supplied, as if it was a perfectly ordinary occurrence to find such things in one’s pockets. “I pilfered it from the kitchen while the supper room was being set up. Amazing what you can get away with dressed as a servant. Be careful not to drip grease on your dress. Or, at least try only to drip a little.” Reaching into her other pocket, she pulled out a clean handkerchief and proffered it to Ivy. She then pulled the window curtains shut, bathing them in almost opaque gloom. Ivy could just make out her sister’s silhouette, a shadow among shadows, as the Beta leaned her head against the side of the coach, tucking her legs up and under her. “I’m going to try to get some sleep,” she said. Despite the cramped position and the jostling of the coach she appeared to do so promptly, with an ease Ivy was often jealous of.

Ivy watched her sister’s placid form for a minute, then tucked the clean kerchief into her neckline and removed her gloves carefully, sightlessly poking into the bundled napkin until she could retrieve a small portion of the fowl. It tasted delicious, tender and smokey and almost sweet.

She leaned towards the window of the coach, tucking back the curtain ever so slightly, in hopes of catching one last glimpse of the lights of the masquerade-- but these had long faded into the distance, and all there was to see was a vast darkness.

\---

It was not long from the dawn hour when the last guests exited the house and Zadie, giddy from champagne, infatuation, and the relief of having the run of her territory once more, set off to find her brother.

“Bertram!” she exclaimed, spotting the man conversing with his butler, Wilkins, in the front hallway. The Alpha appeared to have shed his dinner jacket, covering his shirt instead with a draped sheet in an effort to match his wife. It was a good effort, though his black trousers made a funny picture of him-- antiquity above the knees and modernity below it. When he looked her way he was sporting the haggard yet satisfied expression he usually wore at the end of an event, a half spent glass of brandy in his hand. Overtaken by a sudden fondness for the man Zadie rushed over at once and, with little effort, lifted him from the ground and spun him around as she had his wife weeks prior. 

The Alpha gave an indignant squawk at this show of affection, so she only turned him once more before lowering him back down and contenting herself with enveloping him in a stationary embrace.

“Dear Lord, Alpha, what has gotten into you,” he muttered, face squashed against her shoulder. She squeezed him tighter, and he made a queer noise. “Let me go would you Zed, you're near crushing me.”

She did so, and he stepped back, bedsheet robe now a bit disheveled 

“You’ve made me waste at least a finger of good brandy down your back,” he muttered, frowning at his now empty tumbler. 

“Worry not, I do not mind,” Zadie assured him as he passed his glass to Wilkins and dismissed him for the moment. “For you see, I’ve found her,” she announced. Bertram rubbed small circles into his temple, face wary as he looked up at her.

“You’ve found… ?”

“My _wife_ , Bertram, my truemate, the Omega I will marry!”

Bertram ceased rubbing.

“After one meeting?” he appeared altogether surprised, which was odd, as Zadie had been under the impression that he had been hoping for such an outcome.

At that moment Belinda appeared in the sudden and mysterious way Betas often did, smiling so that the tips of her teeth showed.

“I thought that you'd know it in an instant,” she laughed, eyes sparkling as she clasped her gloved hands together and turned to her husband. “Did I not think she'd know it at once, Bertram?”

“Yes, darling, you did of course,” Bertram replied. “As exciting as this news is, and as excitable as you are, Zed, I do beg you keep your composure.”

“I cannot,” she admitted, taking hold of him once more and bringing him back to her bosom. “For it is all thanks to you, brother, that I found her! You and your wretched meddling, and your terrible army of decorators, and your sad, tiny foods!”

“Blazes, Alpha,” Bertram grunted against her tunic, “do you like me or loathe me?”

“Love you, of course,” Zadie responded, loosening her hold on the shorter man. “For all that I've resented your intrusion into my estate-” Bertram grumbled something about _'my_ estate’ that Zadie paid little mind to “-it has indeed brought me a happiness I could never imagine. Not that I forgive you for disrupting my models and my maps, mind, that resentment I'll take to the grave as I'm sure you'll keep a dozen resentments against me.”

“Zed-” Bertram began, but Zadie could not stop herself from continuing. 

“She's beautiful, of course, with dark hair and dark eyes. You may argue that all women are beautiful, and you would be right, but she is a vision beyond compare. Yet there really is something too about her which is beyond mere beauty, it is as if she’s pierced my very _soul_.” 

“You said she was an Omega?” Bertram cut in.

“Not just _an_ Omega, _the_ Omega.”

“I find that... interesting, given that it seemed to me that you'd been shut out from the clusters not even two hours in.” Bertram narrowed his eyes. “The only dances I saw you taking after that were with Betas, and most of them were married or soon set to be.” 

“Then clearly you were not spying upon me well enough,” Zadie replied, feeling impatient with Bertram’s nitpicking. He had a very strange way of showing his excitement for her. “For I did dance with an Omega, though not from the clusters. She was alone.”

“ _Alone?_ ” Betrtram’s eyebrows shot up nearly to where his hairline once was.

“How unusual!” Belinda noted, making a little hop of excitement. “Oh, do tell us her name,” she urged.

“Please tell me you at least asked her name,” Bertram muttered.

“Evangeline,” Zadie declared proudly, forming each precious sound with the care of a goldsmith.

At this Bertram’s neutral expression tipped ever so slightly into a frown, and Belinda’s smile faltered a bit, her eyebrows drawing together. They exchanged a glance between them. 

“What? What is it you two?” Zadie asked.

“Just that… well, I do not know of any young ladies with that name,” Belinda said, placing her fingers at her lips briefly before looking to her husband. “Do you, Bertram?” 

Bertram shook his head.

“So there is an element of mystery to her identity.” Zadie considered this prospect with a flicker of concern, before shaking her head to dismiss the spectre of needless worry. Instead she split her lips into a confident grin. “It quite fortunate, then, that I am _very_ good at mysteries.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're coming up against the end of my buffer of completed chapters, so posting schedule might start going a little.... pear shaped going forward. I will try my best to be timely.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ivy partakes of dated gossip and has little to distract her from self-pity.

The two days following Ivy’s surreptitious dawn-hour return from the masquerade seemed to pass in an almost dreamlike state of fantasy. The ball felt as if it had happened in another world, in a dream perhaps-- gilded and blurred and separate from all of the worry and obligation and dreariness of reality. It had felt so much like a fairy tale, to be swept off her feet by a dashing Alpha in the costume of a noble outlaw, held so delicately and with such assurance. She'd been so carried away she had nearly given the Alpha her name. 

Her heat set upon her on the third day, and the next five were lost to that terrible pyrexic delirium, her Aunt and sister tending to her in shifts until it at last broke.

In the clarity of her post-heat, chilled into lucidity by the layer of sweat on her now cold skin, Ivy fell back to reality quite hard. Had she really done such a thing? What had possessed her to agree to go to the masquerade in the first, and what had further deranged her mind as to accept one dance and beg for a second? Heat could make one do mad things, she’d been told, but she’d been more than mad, she’d been _ludicrous_. She feared the betrayal of the coachman, or that she’d been spied upon by a reporter or one of their watchmen. She spent the weeks that followed her heat haunted by the persistent fear that she had been noticed, that even now she was being whispered about, that she would be found out. 

Desperate to find out if her appearance at the masquerade had become a source of gossip, Ivy hovered unbecomingly around Gertrude whenever she came for a fitting. The Omega could be depended upon to keep a keen eye on the scandals of the day-- if someone had remarked on the presence of an unknown guest, if there was speculation as to her identity, surely Gertrude would mention it. But either there was nothing there, or by the time it had occurred to her to fear it the papers had already turned their attention to more recent fare. Ivy ached to ask Gertrude outright, but fear of rousing suspicion kept her lips buttoned. She wasn't generally interested in gossip. Would it not, then, seem terribly strange for her to suddenly ask after the masquerade?

After a few weeks of this silent torment Millicent, who had most likely figured out the reason for her uncharacteristic presence in the parlor on her own, took mercy upon her.

“Say Gertie,” the Beta remarked, giving a subtle but pointed look towards Ivy, who was pretending to read a book of poetry, “has that masquerade you were so interested in happened yet? You seemed to think it ripe for scandal, yet I haven’t heard you mention it at all since.”

Gertrude shrugged, a look of displeasure crinkling her face.

“I’d really hoped so, but it turned out to be nothing overly entertaining.”

“No mystery guests?” Millicent pressed.

“One, actually,” Gertrude remarked. 

Ivy nearly dropped her book. She fumbled with the tome for a moment, trying to keep the alarm from her scent. 

“The day after, you see,” Gertrude continued, ignorant to Ivy’s turmoil, “there was some twitter about the estate’s _gamekeeper_ having snuck into the ball and danced with some Ladies of the haut ton, causing a great deal of horror once she let slip her identity. Of course all the major papers rushed the Clerk of the Peace to see who Cardenfirth’s registered gamekeeper was-- only to find her to be none other than Lord Weldwick’s _sister_. Weldwick confirmed it was she who’d been at the ball, said she’d introduced herself as such for the purpose of disguise. It’s been said he was quite cross about the matter, but then again everyone knows Weldwick’s a terrible old Wigsby.” She made a dismissive gesture with her hand. “Anyhow, apparently that kind of thing-- the idea of a member of the ton _in cognito_ , as one of the _rest_ of us-- is the height of romance to some people.” She snorted loudly. “I find it rather obnoxious myself. That genre of story is always told as a fable about how fickle Omega are.” Gertrude turned her head give Ivy a coy look over her shoulder, grinning conspiratorially. “As if it’s _our_ fault when an Alpha’s purse is the only truly enticing thing about them, eh?”

Ivy, who was doing her best to calm her racing heart and must have looked terribly pale, forced a smile and a nod. 

“Stand still,” Aunt Cecilia exclaimed, “if you wriggle this much I shall prick you, and your blood will muddle the fabric.” Gertrude rolled her eyes theatrically and looked away from Ivy so that she might bicker with the older woman.

“You old biddy-” she began, raising her voice so Aunt Cecilia could be certain to hear her barbs even with her poorly ears.

“And there was nothing else?” Ivy asked abruptly, the book of poems now clutched to her chest as if her emotions might have been written out upon her shirt and in need of obscuring. “Only one guest of mysterious identity, and, and she quickly found out?”

“Yes, that was quite all,” Gertrude sniffed with an air of disappointment. “The Cardenfirth Masquerade used to be a rather lot more _libertine_ , but Weldwick has apparently tamped down on that. That a bon vivant like the late Earl could have a bore like that for a son...” She tutted as if this were a tragedy of Shakesperian proportions.

Ivy should have felt immense relief at the news that she’d gone unnoticed, at at last being freed from her suspense. And there _was_ an easing of tension which came to Ivy now that she could reassure herself that the ball was all put behind her. Yet she also felt a terrible pang in her heart at this very same thought. She did not _wish_ for it to be over. A terribly immature fantasy scampered through her thoughts, that somehow the moment could have continued on despite her fleeing-- the image of Cinderella’s silver slipper trapped on the tarred steps of the castle. The name she’d given as her own had been apt in at least one way-- neither Ivy nor the poem’s heroine were destined for a happy ending. It was only tormenting herself to imagine otherwise. 

The weeks that followed her conversation with Gertrude seemed to Ivy to pass in a strange way: at once they seemed unending in their monotony and yet gone in a blink of the eye. She realized over their course that it was entirely logical that no one had noticed her at the ball. Beneath the draw of her supposed gender, there was nothing genuinely special about Ivy. Stripped of her rarity she was a plain, boring, unremarkable Omega. No one had spoken to her the whole time she was there, save Millicent and the Alpha she danced with. No one had seen anything worth seeing in her.

Two more heats descended upon Ivy after the one directly following the ball. She’d hoped, perhaps, that they would be more bearable in the autumn and the winter, but the temperatures around her seemed to be of little significance when she was in the throes of her fever. Between her heats she remained in a sort of lingering malaise, trapped at home with little to do and few possibilities for companions. She read, though it did not amuse her. She slept, though it did not rest her. She ate, though the food was tasteless in her mouth. She gazed out of her window, though she saw nothing but sooty brick, and it only made her long for the opportunity to be outside again.

Even in the evenings (and on rare occasions, mornings) Millicent was not at work, and was therefore available to act as her chaperone, it was still not necessarily feasible for Ivy to leave their Aunt’s house. She had always been sensitive to the quality of air, owing to her asthma. Before her Ama’s death they’d lived in the country all year round, and she’d found breathing much easier so long as she was careful about engaging in rigorous activities or going out in certain weather. In London, especially on days when the fog was particularly thick, she had to nearly smother herself with a kerchief in order to take even a step past her Aunt’s doorway. While the wealthy and the landed could flee from the stench and smog when it set upon the capital, Ivy had no recourse but to huddle indoors, windows closed tight, or risk having a paroxysm of respiration which could well lead to her death.

The best of days were those when Millicent had several hours free and the air was clear enough for the both of them to visit the park nearby their Aunt’s house. These were as a break of sun between the clouds on a chilling day-- respites of warmth and light amidst overcast dreariness. On one notable trip she watched a pair of jackdaws tugging a stick back and forth between them in a sort of play battle and laughed when one of them, making too fierce a tug, fell flat upon their back and squawked indignantly. On another she watched crows hanging upside down on willow branches, bobbing and swaying like inkblack buoys. She liked to think the flock still recognized her though she could not visit them so often as she had before presenting. She made efforts to mimic the cries they made, as she knew some birders could, but the looks they gave her made it quite clear they were not fooled. When there were no birds about she would sketch, or read, or simply sit upon the bench and feel the sun upon her face. 

There was something Dame Robin Hood had said, about the natural world being good for the soul and body alike, which led Ivy to think of her in those moments. Ivy had come to wonder if the Earl’s sister of whom Gertrude had spoken might have been her Dame Robin Hood. There were precious few Alpha women among the ton after all, but it was difficult to reconcile the jovial Alpha who’d spoken so eagerly of the antics of crows with the other high society figures she’d come to know. If the woman really did work as a gamekeeper, perhaps that meant she was the sort who did not care about decorum or rank. Ivy thought wryly that if anyone should have a skillset apt to spotting a vulnerable creature in hiding, no matter how plain or how unremarkable she should appear, it should be a stalker of game. But Ivy had not felt like prey in Dame Robin Hood’s arms. She had not felt hunted. She had felt, she had felt...

Ivy tried not to think too much of how she’d felt in Dame Robin Hood’s arms.

Instead, when the thought of the Alpha rose to mind in the park, she asked herself what she might be doing under this same sun. If she had been the gamekeeper: did she ever walk the ground for the pleasure of it, or only for her work? If she had another identity: did she at least have an estate in the country to enjoy? How much of it was a modern garden and how much grew freely and wildly of its own accord?

Ivy’s happiest and most cherished memories had long been of going on walks with her family through the woods that had dominated her Ama’s estate-- but those memories too stung too fiercely to inhabit now.

Even when the air was too poor for Ivy to go out, she could at least enjoy her sister’s company on the occasions when she was home. Most often, however, she was not, and Ivy was left with only the company of her Aunt and her occasional client. While her Aunt Cecilia’s generous soul was clearly demonstrated by her taking in her sister’s wayward children sight unseen, she was not in disposition a particularly warm woman. She spent her time either working on costuming with a singular concentration or else reading gothic stories and crime periodicals. Her deafness could make casual conversation difficult, but they hadn’t much in common to discuss anyway. Ivy’s attempts to ask after Aunt Cecilia’s readings had proved less than fruitful, as all of her Aunt’s favorite stories were full of terrible violence and lurid detail that left her feeling a tad ill. 

Her Aunt’s clients were a bit of a curate’s egg. Gertrude rarely wanted to do anything but gossip about the gentry and the theater, and the other Omegas generally wished to talk about Ivy’s season and her suitors. A good deal of them had strong opinions on whom it was she should choose and no compunction against lecturing her on the topic, and Ivy often left such discussions feeling more haggard than before. She did not feel comfortable keeping company with the Alphas. It was not that any had been untoward in their word or behavior, but their scents were particularly stinging in the small space and she did not wish to risk the embarrassment of seeing them in a state of undress. The Betas were often decent conversationalists-- though her Aunt did not work with as many of them as she did the other dynamics.

Such isolation was almost, though not quite, enough to make her miss the Season. For all of the stress and trepidation it had brought, it at least gave her the chance to leave her bedroom and meet new folk. But these acquaintances were now miles away, and Ivy had fretted too long over the imposition of asking their off-season mailing addresses-- they had all left by the time she’d worked up the courage. She had hoped that perhaps Miss Marland or Miss Culpepper, who had both been friendly towards her, might write to her. But she knew their mothers discouraged them from associating with her, as many of the Omega’s mothers did. While her Ama’s blood might be sufficient to permit the Alphas of the ton to court her, it was clearly not enough to merit open friendliness from the other debutantes and their mothers.

It seemed to Ivy almost that her mind had become like the moors-- a field of pitfalls waiting to swallow her up for a single misplaced step. She must not think about Dame Robin Hood’s arms. She must not think of fall days collecting acorns with her Ama. She must not think about the friends she does not have, nor why she does not have them. It was not easy to not-think about so many things. It was much easier to sleep. It was much easier to allow time to pass around her. That the next Season would come was as inevitable as the turning of the earth. It required no watchfulness on her part, so she gave none.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which plans are made to place our lovers back into each others arms.

In the months which followed the masquerade Zadie spent a great deal of her time tangling with the mystery of her Lady Evangeline. It was a puzzle which had at first seemed simple, but each motion towards solving it seemed to reveal an unforeseen aspect which rendered it yet more complex. 

The first weeks involved Lord and Lady Weldwick doing a great deal of reading and referencing and listing: reviewing their records of invitations sent and responded to, consulting directories of prominent families to fill in details as needed. All of this squinting at little words was not the sort of thing Zadie excelled at, and Jocelyn had well in hand the task of ensuring the manor was put back into the order it had been in before Bertram had swooped in to meddle things around. With little to offer towards either goal at this junction, Zadie took the opportunity to turn her attention to the grouse that had just come into season. When she returned to the manor after a day's expedition-- a tidy three brace of her feathered quarry in hand-- she was abruptly confronted by Bertram, who had somehow uncovered that she had accidentally revealed her identity at the ball. Inexplicably to Zadie, he was upset both that she had revealed herself to be the gamekeeper _and_ that she had not then immediately admitted she was his sister. His resentment of this issue rendered him especially contumacious in attitude, and when Zadie came to the Library a few days later to meet with Belinda and him, his first words to her were not a greeting but an interrogation.

“Are you _certain_ Evangeline was her name, rather than her costume?” he snapped, arms crossed over one another. 

Zadie snorted rather brashly through her nose, dropping down onto a stuffed chair positioned across from the pair. The couple sat beside one another upon a divan, an assortment of papers strewn on a low table in front of them.

“You keep asking that, Bertram, and I keep telling you I am _quite_ sure. She said she calls herself Evangeline.” As Zadie spoke, she leaned forward and used her fingers to comb out chips of fallen leaves that had tangled in her hair during her morning survey, watching as the fragments floated down to the library rug.

“Are you though?” Bertram challenged, and Zadie glanced up to find him raising a brow incredulously. “I recall your first masquerade after your presentation you met a girl dressed as Sophia Primrose, and that you called her Miss Primrose nearly every time you met her after, though her name was most _assuredly_ Miss Dunn.”

“Well, how was I supposed to know Primrose was not her name?”

“Because _The Vicar of Wakefield_ is only the most popular novel in the Western world.”

“Well she was not dressed as a Vicar,” Zadie muttered, plucking a burr from the wool of her trousers, “so I do not see how that relates to anything.”

“Zadie,” Belinda cut in before she and Bertram could begin bickering in earnest. “I am afraid that we have some bad news about the search for your Lady Evangeline. It seems that our memories were quite accurate at the first. We can find no girl named Evangeline among those invited, nor in their families. Your Omega likely gave you a nickname. Perhaps she goes by her middle name, as those are not always listed.”

“Or it was, in fact, her costume,” Bertram grumbled.

“Perhaps she decided to come without having been issued an invitation,” Zadie countered, feeling rather petulant. “Uninvited guests are hardly unheard of at the masquerade.”

“Our father might have considered such abherences acceptable,” Bertram sniffed, “I most assuredly do _not_.”

“Ah yes, because having people come into your home uninvited is something terrible,” Zadie said, looking squarely at Bertram. The corner of the Alpha’s mouth twitched downwards, but he gave no sign of grasping her implication. Zadie frowned, brows knitting together, and tried again to make her meaning clear. “Bertram, I said having people come into your house without permission is bad. I am saying it to _you_.” She paused. Bertram was becoming somewhat red but was still saying nothing. “I am saying that because you came to my home uninvited,” Zadie explained. “It is irony. I am being ironic towards you. Do you not understand it?”

This last elucidation apparently conveyed her intent at last, as Bertram burst to his feet, hands forming fists at his side and scent flaming with frustration.

“Of _course_ I bloody underst-”

“ _Alphas_ ,” Belinda admonished, eying them reproachfully from over her reading spectacles and wrinkling her nose slightly at their harshened scents. Bertram snorted, smoothed his lapels and tugged his vest into place before returning to the couch. Zadie pretended to have suddenly become fascinated with her hands. When the Beta was satisfied that they’d both been chided into silence, she finished sorting through the papers on the parlor table and straightened up, hands folded upon her lap. “Bertie was quite strict about who was permitted to attend, Zadie. But to be absolutely certain, we also searched among other prominent families, and still found no one christened with the name. While it would have been quite tidy for us if the girl were so easy to track down, this hardly means we are out of options,” she reassured. “We must simply use the details which we do know about the girl to narrow down the possibilities. We know that she has quite dark hair, and her eyes are, by Zadie’s best guess, a medium shade of brown. We will simply focus our search on Omega of that coloring going forward.” She met Zadie’s gaze with a centering calm. “Do you think, Alpha, you would recognize her, should you meet again?”

“Absolutely,” she replied with a sharp nod, for there was no doubt in her mind to this fact. Though she was not the best at recalling faces, there was something unique about Evangeline's soul which she felt her own was sure to recognize.

“Then we must simply do our best to ensure you do meet her again,” Belinda concluded, smiling easily, her mild scent hopeful.

This process, Zadie was disappointed to find, was one that would involve a good deal of _Socializing_ \-- in the form of inviting prospective Omegas and their families to stay at Cardenfirth. Many of the fathers and brothers of prospective Evangelines were already due to visit Cardenfirth as part of the shooting season, and Bertram thought it a fine idea to formally extend these invitations to the whole of their families. Which, he explained, would mean that Zadie could no longer expect them to remain in the hunting cabins for the duration of their stay, but that they would be hosted in the guest rooms which she had long left to gather dust. Bertram had no shortage of ideas for additional entertainments, none of which sounded enticing to Zadie (save for perhaps fern hunting, which lost its appeal once Bertram explained that it was rather more like flower picking and would not even involve hounds) but which were allegedly designed to give her the chance to bond with the Omegas. This arrangement, Bertram and Belinda assured, would provide Zadie with the best opportunity to search for her Lady Evangeline. 

Zadie would never have tolerated such a plan under ordinary circumstances. Socializing was _not_ something of which Zadie was particularly fond. Even as the season involved shooting parties making frequent visitations to Cardenfirth, it was a quite simple thing for Zadie to avoid any interaction with them. The grounds were vast and shooting rights applied to specific sectors of land, with Zadie outlining a schedule of slots ahead of each season ensuring that party numbers were limited and land use rotated appropriately to avoid overhunting. As such Zadie could ensure there was always a portion or two of unoccupied land available for her own use at any given time. Bertram was the one who curated the actual guest list (based on, Zadie assumed, whatever ballet of social minutiae and political machinations he had running at the moment) and Zadie had long left the guiding of shooting parties to the stablemaster-cum-undergamekeeper’s management, taking over most of the stable management work from him in exchange. Her only direct involvement in managing guests was in guiding deer stalking parties, which Zadie felt was quite different a matter. After all, Zadie was never called upon to discuss anything but those subjects which held her most vested interest during these expeditions. No one insisted upon banalities, and there was no need to dress up, nor remember etiquette. She was accepted as a gamekeeper and sportsalpha, and not put upon to display the bearing of the spare of an Earl.

The Socializing Bertram expected her to do was entirely different and entirely more uncomfortable. For one, it tended to come with all sorts of corporeal trappings of which she was not even remotelyfond-- stiff high collars that stunk of starch, cravats and ties that made incessant swishing noises as she moved, pinching shoes with smooth bottoms which supplied no traction to her steps, wispy fabrics that snagged on everything and did nothing to keep out cold and even less to disperse heat and perspiration (Jocelyn had forewarned her that one must sometimes be itched for love, but must one be itched so _incessantly?_ ). 

And the prison of Socializing was not merely of garments, but of propriety and ritual and extraordinary inanity. It meant tolerating strange people with strange scents gallivanting around her home only days after Jocelyn had finished putting it back to rights. She could not put the ornamentations of social mores aside as she otherwise would have, as making an appealing impression would be key to ensuring the families Bertram invited were willing to bring their eligible daughters, and to charming Evangeline’s family once found. She imagined Bertram to be quite pleased that, in forcing her back into society via the masquerade, he’d stumbled upon a lure which could bar her from realizing her longing to immediately retreat from it. Zadie had once hoped her Father’s passing had freed her forever from this diabolical snare of formalwear and bowing and being expected to have opinions on thoroughly boring subjects. She could never have foreseen herself being driven by the siren call of love back into this same tangle, trapped by her own volition. 

Well, not _entirely_ her own volition. 

Zadie had made several counter-propositions to the plot Lord and Lady Weldwick seemed set to foist upon her. She first suggested that, as it now seemed simpler to beckon Evangeline to reach out to her rather than the reverse, they should place a personal article in the major English papers soliciting her identity.

“That would be an excellent idea, Zed, should we be looking for a way to ensure every fortunehunter and conman in Christendom converges upon Cardenfirth,” Bertram had responded, the last half of his statement quite ruining the feeling of encouragement roused by the first half. He believed that Zadie would not have so simple a time ruling out imposters as she expected, which she found quite the insult to her powers of acuity. Belinda had been more persuasive in pointing out that, should Evangeline _have_ provided a false name, she perhaps had reason to keep her identity a secret-- what if such an advertisement should embarrass her? This had given Zadie pause, as she’d remembered Lady Evangeline being quite discomfited with having attention drawn to her.

Zadie had then spent some time arguing for a simpler version of the social approach. There was no reason, after all, that she could not make the trips to the families by herself. All she would have to do was ride to the home of whatever Omega should be next on the list of prospects-- for expediency she would pack her own food and sleep overnight in the brush beside the road as necessitated by the journey’s length. If she did not find her true love at her destination, she would speak to them for a quarter hour (because she was polite) and subsequently return home. Alas, this sensible and eminently more efficient way of going about things had been vetoed not just by Bertram, but by Belinda as well. 

Even Jocelyn, when told of her idea, had been unsympathetic.

“And what,” the valet had asked after she’d described her plan, “are you to do about the fact that you are bound to be filthy, if not stinking terribly, by the time you’ll arrive? They may not wish to even admit you indoors.”

“If they are truly opposed to my state, I shall stand on the road and shout,” Zadie had reasoned, but to no avail.

So it came to pass that Zadie found nearly every week of her calendar besmirched by the obligation of entertaining visitors. She attempted to keep a light heart about this prospect, for these social events were ones that would at least serve an _eventual_ purpose. She was sure it would not be long before she would find her Lady Evangeline, and so she told herself it would be silly to spend her time wondering about the girl. She would soon enough be able to ask the questions that flickered through her mind when she thought of the Omega-- how she lived and who her family was and what she would think of Cardenfirth in the daylight. She did her best to practice patience, as she had been bid by her brother and his wife, and to put her mullings about the girl to the side. 

Once the flood of guests began to gush into her territory through the hole Bertram had smashed into the dam walls of her private home, Zadie discovered she would have little time available for rumination anyway. She had hardly enough hours free to survey the grounds and even less to pursue game herself. It was early autumn still-- grouse and partridge had already come into season and pheasant would soon follow. Bertram had urged her with little subtlety to turn her gamekeeping responsibilities over, in full, to the stablemaster for the duration of their quest. This she had refused emphatically. Zadie expected she would need her retreats into the woods, rare as they might become, more than ever lest endless _Socializing_ drive her mad. 

Were it a year like any other since her presentation, Zadie would have spent the early morning of the Glorious Twelfth stalking stag, bow slung on her back and morning dew wetting the ends of her hair to curling as she lay within a hide in the hours before sunrise. The early season was a time of plenty for a deerstalker-- the grounds were abound with prime stags who, still in possession of their lazy summer disposition and the velvet of their antlers, travelled in bachelor groups from bedding to feed. Their languid pace presented opportunities that would disappear entirely in a few weeks time. Soon enough they would shed their summer carelessness and grow yet more wary and nocturnal in their habits, retreating to higher ground as rut approached.

Zadie felt much like a restless buck herself: herded from bed to breakfast to parlor to library to drawing room to dining room and back to bed, wishing badly to bolt into the cover of the woods. Before a visit her mood buoyed with excitement, for she hoped and expected each time that she would be reunited with her Evangeline shortly-- but disappointment deflated her spirits in little time, and each low seemed lower than before. Her mind wandered often to what she was missing out on on the grounds, always aware of the weather and the position of the sun. Her company would chatter around the table and she would gaze out the window and think of stags weighed down by growing winter coats, their inevitable approach to the water sources by which she’d already prepared hides.

Zadie regretted that she did not have enough time in the day to keep both her work and her quest for Evangeline. But true love, she reminded herself, was unlike the Glorious Twelfth-- it did not come about every August.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you plot out a story not fully realizing you made it so its going to take, like, a full six months in-universe for your characters to see each other again. So be advised the next few chapters are going to be a lot of pining, introspection, and a bit of exposition (which to be honest is kind of my cup of tea, but not everyones').


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the past is a strange country, but not so strange as the present, and the Farrow sisters are homesick.

“Alright,” Millicent said, getting down on the floor besides Ivy with a quiet ‘oof’ and pulling at her sleeping gown so that it provided a barrier between the floor and her skin without being pulled tight. She put a paper bag of sugar lumps in front of them. “I thought for a moment I’d lost them, forgot about putting it in that jar to keep the rats out. Too clever for my own good.” she plucked out a morsel and stuck it in her mouth. 

Late October had come before Ivy realized it-- and with it, their mother’s birthday. This year marked the fourteenth to pass since her death, the third since their Ama’s.

They had celebrated their mother’s birthday with their Ama every year. Ivy did not know the date she died-- her mother had asked they remember the day of her birth instead, and spend it in celebration of life rather than revisiting the grief of her death. In the early morning of that day they would go for a walk through the woods and collect fallen autumn leaves, then come back and have warm oatmeal with raisins. All three of them would spend the day together, and the cook would make them spice cake for desert. As the night went on they would sit on the rug in front of the fire and eat fancy maple candies that had been brought all the way from across the Atlantic to London, and then all the way from London to their little estate. They would write notes and they would pretended that, by burning their still inkwet letters in the midnight fire, their mother might receive them in the other life.

They’d not known what to do with themselves, the first October after their Ama’s passing. They had lost the hearth in which they had transformed words into smoke. They had lost their Ama’s low and rasping voice telling them stories of their mother as she’d once been, vibrant and reckless and laughing like she knew how precious each moment of joy was. Gone was the protection she provided from the judgement of the world, and gone were the spice cakes and the maple candies. They had decided that they should at least spend the night together, and eat lumps of brown sugar in front of a fire. It felt to Ivy, and perhaps to Millicent too, that to abandon their tradition as a whole would be to consign their parents to the ashes of history.

They sat shoulder to shoulder before the fireplace, Millicent’s legs splayed to the side carelessly, Ivy’s tucked neatly underneath her, the crackling fire warming the apples of her cheeks even as the chill of the floor bit through the wool of her socks. Ivy tilted her head to rest it upon Millicent’s shoulder, and her sister hummed and raised a hand to pick at the strands of her hair. Ivy reach for a sugar lump and fed it to herself, letting the morsel melt into a dark molasses syrup over her tongue.

“Tell me the story,” she asked, closing her eyes-- the light of the fire gave a red glow to the darkness behind her eyelids, seeing but unseeing. She did not have to say which story. Millicent’s lips parted with a crisp sound, and she let out a sigh which was almost a laugh.

“It was wintertime, or nearly at least. It was getting cold and you could feel it, especially in the drafty parts of the house, I remember that much. You were a bitty little pup, about three years old…” she trailed off, her fingers plucking through Ivy’s hair, considering something. “No, no now that I think it you must have been four because, I remember, that year was the last Christmas we had together. Everyone was in the bedroom together. Mum was in bed... by then she was almost always in bed, and you were sitting at the foot of it, bouncing your little legs. I was watching you to make sure you didn’t shake yourself off the bed, and Mum and I were talking about something, I don’t remember what. By the window-”

“She was asking you about the trip you and Ama took into town,” Ivy interrupted. “I remember you saying that once before.”

"I'm sorry little jackdaw, did _you_ want to tell the story?" Millicent asked sarcastically, poking at her neck though without any actual heat in her voice. Ivy stifled and laugh and murmured an apology, shook her head.

“As I was saying,” the Beta continued, “Ama was at the window watching the weather out of it or something like that. Then all the sudden you got this very serious look on your little face. You looked at me, and you looked at our mother, and you looked at your Ama, and you piped up in your squeaky pup voice, you said: When do _I_ get to be a Lady too? Very impatient about the matter, you were.” Millicent chuckled fondly, her smile audible in her voice. “Now, Ama didn’t realize how serious you were, I don’t think. She told you that you were not ever going to turn into a lady, that you _could not_ be a lady. Well, you nearly threw yourself right off the bed, you were so upset! If I weren’t there, if I wasn’t in the way, I think you would have with all your thrashing about and weeping. You were such a quiet little pup, it shocked all of us to see you so distraught. Mum… Mum had me bring you right over to her so she could hold you. She held your little body and she rocked you, and she said… she said that it was going to be alright. She said that you _could too_ be a lady, if thats what you wished to be, and that she’d… she wouldn’t let anything stop you.”

Ivy felt Millicent’s shoulders shake under her cheek, and she lifted her head and slit open her eyes to find her sister gazing into the fire, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s okay,” Millicent interrupted. “I mean, it’s not okay. I miss her so much. Her and Ama.” She rubbed at her eyes with the heel of her hand and sniffed. “God, Ama.” She removed her hand and again stared into the fire.

“I miss them too,” Ivy said, though she could not but feel that her own grief could not compare to Millicent’s. She had been so young when their mother passed that she hardly knew her, but Millicent had been twelve then, on the brink of adolescence and with a lifetime of memories together. Ivy had only flickerings of memories of the Beta. She remembered rusty red hair, a feeling of unease and fear from seeing her gaunt and listless in her final days. Ivy wished dearly that the memory of her mother’s promise could have been her own. She had so little else to remember the Beta by. 

They had both suffered for their Ama’s death, but Ivy expected that Millicent had suffered more than she. Though Ivy might have been the one who shared her blood, her Ama had always been closer to Millicent. The Alpha had always loved Millicent in such a fierce, uncomplicated way-- with an ease that she hadn’t quite been able to extend to Ivy, though she had tried. She had loved Ivy, certainly, and often said it. Ama had been nurturing in her own way, but never the way a mother could be-- and she had told Ivy she must not talk about being a girl or a lady or anything of this sort. Ivy supposed that Ama had intended this directive for her protection, but still it stung, that she had not been willing to accept Ivy for herself the way she’d seemed to have accepted Millicent.

Ama had never discussed the details of her mother’s death, but Ivy was aware of them nonetheless. Ivy supposed Millicent must have been the one who told her, as she was always of the opinion that keeping secrets from family was silly and caused more headache than it prevented (their mother had felt the same way apparently-- Ivy wondered if perhaps honesty was in a Beta’s disposition). Her pregnancy with Ivy had been difficult, and a few days after the birth she’d begun to show the signs of childbed fever, which had been epidemic that year. While she had survived the initial sickness, her health had never fully recovered. Despite their Ama seeking the services of the best doctors in the realm for her, she would suffer many more illnesses afterwards, each one weakening her further until her death five years after Ivy’s birth. 

Ivy was forever aware, unspoken though it may have gone, that it was her rough arrival into the world that had ultimately killed her mother. Aware that she had taken her Ama's wife, her sister's mother, all the future children and all the future joy they could have had. She could not but feel that her Ama was aware of it as well. 

Ivy squeezed her eyes shut, so that stars seemed to burst in the darkness beneath her eyelids, unwilling to surrender to the tears prickling at their corners. 

“I’ve gotten you something,” Millicent announced abruptly, and she turned to her side, wiping her face on the sleeve of her nightgown, and retrieved a little book which she held out. Ivy, welcoming the distraction, took it in her hands and looked over for the title. Unable to find one on the face or spine, she opened it and flipped through the pages, finding only blank paper inside. “A journal,” Millicent elaborated, perhaps thinking that Ivy was so dulled by melancholy that she lacked the faculties to put even that much together. 

“I don’t have anything to give you,” Ivy murmured, drawing her brows together.

“You’re unhappy, Ivy. I think, sometimes, that you’re getting more unhappy by the week.” 

Ivy looked up from the empty book. She should by now be used to the fact that her melancholy was always obvious to Millicent, but still it embarrassed her that she was not skilled enough in controlling her scent and expression to capably hide her low mood from her sister. Millicent did not wait for her to reply but continued on speaking.

“You never want to talk to me about it, and you’ve no one _else_ to talk to. Or, at least, no one who knows about,” Millicent made a vague gesture towards Ivy’s general existence, “everything. So I thought this might help. You remember Ama would always journal when she missed Mum, or when she was angry, or when she was just sorrowful. She said it helped to get the feelings outside of her, even if it was just putting them to the page.”

“Oh,” said Ivy. She did not hold much hope that putting everything she was attempting to avoid reminding herself of into writing would be helpful. But this would be very rude to say, especially in response to a gift.

“Promise you’ll try it,” Millicent urged. “If for no other reason, as a present for me.”

“I promise,” Ivy swore. Though she was not thinking of the prospect with much enthusiasm, it was all she could really offer.

 

Ivy’s efforts to uphold her vow to Millicent were initially hindered by the difficulty of excluding all identifying information from her entries. She wrote pages in fits and starts, but always tore them out and burned them the next day for concern that their contents might incriminate her. It was not inconceivable, after all, that through mishap or maliciousness she might be separated from her journal and that it might be read by others. She had read far too many melodramas to treat such a possibility lightly. It quickly became apparent that she would need to disguise her entries, but she was hardly clever enough to invent her own cypher. The disguise she finally hit upon was a bit embarrassing for its fancifulness, but it did the job. 

After all, many Omegas entertained themselves by writing fiction based on extant works and legends: aftermaths to novels that had taken their fancy, endings to a serialized tale cancelled by its periodical it before its conclusion, alternative chapters when they were displeased by the ending of a tale or the author’s choice of mate for the hero or heroine. Her acquaintance Miss Marland was one such Omega. Like many a reader of _Ivanhoe_ , Miss Marland had taken objection to the titular Alpha knight’s marriage to the pristine but rather boring Lady Rowena, and whenever the novel was mentioned at a social event she would eagerly proffer a copy of her own ending, in which he instead chose Rebecca as his mate. (Ivy suspected that a good deal of Miss Marland’s good will towards her originated in Ivy’s willingness to sit and listen to her read through the whole thing at a garden party-- it was not at all badly done, though Ivy privately felt it was a tad cliche to have Rebecca suddenly present as an Omega the moment Ivanhoe realized his love for her.) 

So Ivy would write her entries as if they were epistolary fiction, as Maid Marion composing letters to Dame Robin Hood. It was a disguise that was easy to keep, for she need only think of the Alpha who had so enchanted her at the masquerade and the words would pour from her pen as a confession from the lips of a condemned criminal-- as they well could have fallen from her own lips, had she not persuaded Millicent to flee at the masquerade. 

Writing letters to their mother, her Ama had said, was a way to release their grief rather than let it moulder away inside. In that way, they had value even if they would neither be sent nor received. Ivy felt that her letters to Dame Robin Hood served a similar purpose. Thought what she felt was not quite grief, certainly it was the kind of feeling that could putrefy and rot, if one let it fester too long inside of oneself. So whenever she felt near to bursting with sorrow for the future she could never have, she would write. Whenever loneliness struck her in its full force, like a railroad spike being beaten into her chest, she would put what could not be said into Maid Marion’s pen. 

Ivy had not realized quite how lonely she was until she began journaling-- how lonely she had been even _during_ the season. 

After her presentation she'd hoped the Season might enable her to make friends amongst the other Omegas, but she had not been particularly fortunate in that aspect. From the start there had been a few individual Omegas who she suspected of feeling rather coldly towards her, and their numbers had seemed to swell as the Season went on. Should a cluster have a certain number of these hostile parties, she was sure to be kept towards the margins. Even in the more welcoming clusters, and she was fortunate that these were still more common than the adversarial variety, she’d rarely had much time to get to know the other Omegas. There had always been an Alpha demanding her company, some of them even so crass as to crowd and harass the group until they gave Ivy up to them-- something which surely did nothing to endear her to the other girls.

There was also the fact that, well, sometimes she felt so desperately _jealous_ of them all. Their long shining hair and their decolletage and the way they would flutter their fans with practiced yet seemingly effortless grace. The bell-like resonance of their voices and the easy comfort they had within their own skin, their own clothes. The unrestrained girlhood they represented as their unquestioned birthright. They often joked that they were envious of her popularity among the Alphas, and she longed so desperately to confess how eagerly she would trade them for their place. How could she hope to make friend, true friends, with so much of her unspoken? With so much of her _unspeakable_?

So what could not be spoken, she wrote.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Believe it or not, Ivy writing fanfic about her feelings isn't a whimsical anachronism included to be cheeky-- fandom was big in the Victorian Era and with it fanfic, though they called them "pastiches" generally. The rise in literacy and industrialization of printing made the consumption of written media more widespread than ever, and the serialized release of stories in parts contributed to the fervor and speculation (actors would put on adaptations of Dickens novels before they had even been finished, making up their own ending). This was the era that saw the rise of what's widely considered the first modern fandom (Sherlock Holmes) complete with fanfiction anthologies, the coining of the term "canon" for source material, and mass protests and boycotts when a fan-favorite character was killed. The book "Little Women" depicts characters writing fanfic for one of Dickens' works, and the author herself was famously badgered by shippers demanding she make their OTP canon (she made fun of them in the next installment). The More You Know.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Zadie receives a familiar visitor and experiences a novel emotion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I’ve officially surrendered to that fact that the first part of this story is going to be fairly Zadie-pov heavy. Ivy will get more chapters as the story progresses, but right now all she is really doing is huddling in a seasonal depression blanket burrito and there’s really only so many words one can get out of that.

It began to dawn on Zadie, as the visits and the weeks passed with dull monotony, that the torment of being separated from her work was far more piercing than she had initially expected it to be. It was a torture that rebounded upon and doubled itself, because it meant a profound disruption of the annual rhythm of her life. The Season was reliable. It was a framework on which she could hang the rest of her life with comfort, like a broken-in saddle upon a trusted horse. Details of the environment and the animals may differ year from year, but the underpinnings of the schedule did not change. Every year the same beasts came into season at the same times, a regular and regulated cascade which would then close in counter fashion. Zadie liked things in their places, schedules established well in advance, _consistency_. 

Another routine, one which was not at all as enjoyable as the one she’d kept to in her duties as gamekeeper, seemed to be taking over her life in stead. A repetitious pattern of new hope quickly dashed, of strenuous conversation and increasing boredom, a sort of aching longing that built steadily upon itself. It rarely took more than an hour’s conversation to establish that the girl invited was not Lady Evangeline-- in some cases a single glance was sufficient. But she was hardly free to call the visits to a close, or even to leave the manor for the sanctuary of the woods, the moment she had sorted out that Evangeline was not amongst their guests for the week. Certainly every Omega she met was beautiful, and in good humor, and Zadie did her best to meet this conviviality with her own, but she knew she was not very good company. She was not an Alpha like Bertram, who found interaction a source of pleasure rather than a toll upon the nerves, and this was quite a bit more socializing than she’d ever had wish or energy to do. As each week passed it became more and more difficult to play the gracious host, more and more obvious to her that repeating over and over the same simple conversations about weather and politics and fashion was a waste of time and focus she could be utilizing in pursuit of her mysterious partner. So far there had been no progress at all, just a parade of strangers through her home.

The last of September had passed in this repetitious manner, and all of October as well. It was November before she was introduced to a girl who was at all familiar to her from the masquerade-- a Miss Hookfinch. Zadie recognized her, but not as Lady Evangeline. Another Omega she had danced with, she supposed, though which one she could not tell.

“Ms. Everleigh,” the Omega said in a breathy little voice, once Bertram and Belinda had left them in the drawing room together. They were not alone, of course: Miss Hookfinch’s older cousin, Mrs. Mason, was acting as the Omega’s chaperone, sitting silent and watchful beside her on the divan. Jocelyn had thoughtfully positioned herself in the corner of the room as well, in case they might need anything. “I must apologize for my rudeness at the Masquerade,” Miss Hookfinch continued, fanning herself even though the room did not seem to Zadie to be overly warm. “When you told me you worked as a gamekeeper, I took you at face value.” 

Zadie quirked her head at this curious statement. 

“But I _am_ Cardenfirth’s gamekeeper.”

“Yes, but what I meant was,” Miss Hookfinch chewed on her lip and fanned herself harder. “Was that, well, you are not…” she lowered her voice as if she were about to say something quite crude “ _employed_ as a game keeper. Rather, it is your chosen pursuit. It’s not as if you do that sort of labor for, for _pay_.”

Zadie furrowed her brows. She was starting to become concerned that Miss Hookfinch had strange ideas about the work which gamekeepers did, or perhaps that she might think the title was a cypher-word for something unsavory. Before she could ask the Omega about this point, Mrs. Mason spoke up.

“Miss Hookfinch means to explain that she mistook your position in society. Without knowing you were Lord Weldwick’s sister, she was led to assume you a member of the... _lower classes_.”

“An embarrassing misunderstanding on my part,” Miss Hookfinch rushed to explain, piercing Zadie’s internal attempts to puzzle out what kind of club ‘The Lower Classes’ was, “I can only hope you can forgive me for my coldness towards you. And for so unthinkingly transmitting my misunderstanding through the cluster.”

“Oh,” Zadie said once she had processed Miss Hookfinch’s words, “you were…”

“Costumed as Sun Setting,” Miss Hookfinch twittered, her composure seemingly regained, looking up at her becomingly from under her dark lashes. This confirmation gave Zadie pause, as she distinctly remembered Bertram asking her to list any of the Omegas she’d met at the ball who were _not_ Lady Evangeline, so they might be removed from the list of possibilities. She had not recalled all of their costumes, perhaps, but she had certainly recalled Lady Setting-- Miss Hookfinch. Perhaps she had not remembered to mention Lady Setting to Bertram?

“You _must_ forgive her, Ms. Everleigh,” Mrs. Mason said, prompting Zadie to realize she’d slipped into her own thoughts, which she had been told could make her expression appear somewhat grave. “You can imagine her shock, thinking she’d found the only Alpha in the ton who’d not been lost to Mr. Farrow-- and you turning out to be a _servant_! Of the _outdoors_ , no less!”

Zadie hummed as she noted the unfamiliar name, choosing to focus on that detail rather than Miss Hookfinch’s confounding inclusion among the guests or the mysterious fear Mrs. Mason apparently had of gamekeepers.

“Is this Mr. Farrow some manner of scoundrel?” she asked. “How is it he is forcing the other Alphas out of the marriage market?”

Miss Hookfinch laughed prettily, pressing her fingers together in front of her mouth in a display of modesty, and her cousin chuckled as well.

“Mr. Farrow is not an _Alpha_ , Ms. Everleigh.” The concept seemed inordinately amusing to both of her guests, and Zadie smiled without knowing quite what the joke was.

“Then... who is he?” she asked, feeling rather lost.

“ _Only_ the Omega who's stringing along every Alpha Lord in the ton. Surely you’ve heard of him by reputation if not by name,” Mrs. Mason insisted.

“I’m afraid I’ve heard nothing of the sort,” Zadie shrugged.

“Then you’d be the only Alpha in the upper ten thousand who hasn’t,” Miss Hookfinch laughed again, though this time her gaiety did not seem entirely genuine, did not seem quite to reach her eyes. “Us girls have been rendered wholy invisible since the boy came out. He must have a dozen Alphas chasing him-- his pick of the litter, and no intent in getting on with choosing a mate so that we can have a turn. And he shows every sign of intending to continue this game next Season,” she continued, voice lowering as she leaned in. “It’s quite ridiculous, you know. Farrow’s not even got a personality, really, he’s just standoffish. Clearly thinks he’s better than the rest of us. Which shows his gall, really, considering his heritage. Do you know I’ve heard it said that his Ama found his mother at a-” her chatter cut off suddenly, and she looked back to Mrs. Mason, who had stuck her elbow not very subtly into the other Omega’s side. Miss Hookfinch flushed, chastened, and shook her head slightly, leaning back and recomposing herself. “Forgive me, Alpha, it is terribly rude of me to gossip but you must know it is the one vice that all Omega find ourselves incapable of resisting.”

“Do no _other_ indulgences tempt you, Miss Hookfinch?” Zadie asked in an effort to move them past the uncomfortable moment, though she worried the slyness of her glance and the huskiness of her voice should make her awkwardness obvious. Instead her words set off a burst of giggles and intense fanning in Miss Hookfinch. Zadie wondered if she should go over to the fireplace and reposition the logs to cool the room.

 

“Jocelyn,” she asked later that day, as she was being dressed for dinner, “have you heard of The Lower Classes before? Do you know who it’s members are?”

“It depends who you ask,” Jocelyn replied, nimbly buttoning the front of her starched collar to her shirt and ensuring it was arranged to her liking by thorough inspection. “If you are wondering who it is Mrs. Mason referred to, I suspect it is everyone who has ever been forced to put any amount of effort into earning money, from a railroad baron to a beggar.”

“Hmph. I imagine that it is a very _large_ club, then. But why should Miss Hookfinch have assumed me a member of it? And why should that be portentous to her?”

“It is not a club, Ms. Everleigh,” the other Alpha replied, taking the tie she had selected for Zadie from it’s peg and holding it up to her chest with a scrutinizing gaze, “it is a sector of society one is born into. It is a category of people Miss Hookfinch and Mrs. Mason consider inferior to themselves and their kin.” Satisfied by whatever she was checking for, she wrapped it around Zadie’s neck and busied herself with tying it. “In the eyes of many members of the ton, the foulest mark a prospective mate can have upon their character is to be _employed_.”

Zadie considered this new information for some time, revisiting the conversation that had occurred earlier in the day in new light while Jocelyn moved behind her and stepped up on a small stool to place her waistcoat on. 

“She thought she had insulted me by thinking me employed for want of money, rather than an Alpha of leisure?”

“That was my interpretation, yes,” Jocelyn said, returning to Zadie’s front to button the waistcoat over her bracers and tie. “And the idea that you should be a servant who performs manual labor made such an insult even graver.”

Zadie thought some more on this matter, something occurring to the Alpha that quite bothered her.

“What about Mr. Hirsch?” she asked. “He was the gamekeeper before I was, that was his job. He was paid for it. He was a servant. He did manual labor. What would Miss Hookfinch and Mrs. Mason think of him?"

"We cannot know for certain, but I would theorize that Miss Hookfinch would not want to marry him."

"Well, Mr. Hirsch is already married. And he is also old now. Of course she would not marry him."

"But even were he a young bachelor-- and putting other prejudices aside-- she would still, in all likelihood, be horrified by the prospect of dancing with him."

"But Mr. Hirsch is a very good man,” Zadie argued, trying to meet Jocelyn’s eye in the mirror as the valet once more mounted the step stool, this time to put her dinner jacket on. “I dare say he spent more time with me than Father ever did, and was rather kindly towards me considering I was not his own pup. He taught me so much about the grounds and the animals and the forest, and he's fantastic at whittling. He whittled a whistle with a ball in it for me. And he is very nice. He would make an excellent husband to her, were he still spry and unwed."

"None of that would matter," Jocelyn said, nudging Zadie’s elbow so that she could place her arms correctly into the sleeves of the form fitting jacket.

"Well." Zadie struggled inwardly for a moment. "What about you? You do this for money, don't you?" 

Jocelyn graced her with a wry glance over her shoulder, the slightest turn of the corner of her mouth upwards. 

"I do. And I imagine I am all the less for it in the eyes of Miss Hookfinch and Mrs. Mason.”

Zadie pondered this, awash in thought and a strange sort of displeasure. Jocelyn finished placing her jacket and began fiddling with her cuffs.

"Jocelyn, what is this emotion I am feeling?" she asked, staring at her reflection in the mirror to see if her expression might offer her a clue.

"If I may venture a guess, you are experiencing the emotion of disapproving of Miss Hookfinch and Mrs. Mason’s attitudes," Jocelyn replied. 

"I've felt that way about Alphas before, and some Beta men, but never an Omega. Never a girl.” Zadie frowned. “I'm not sure I like it."

"Well, Omegas are human, are they not?” Jocelyn pointed out, having finished her final touches. The valet stepped to the side and looked approvingly over Zadie’s reflection. At least _someone_ was having fun with all this dressing up. “As such, they are flawed as we all are."

"Flawed,” Zadie echoed. Then, after a pause: “Do you think I should tell her? About Mr. Hirsch? I still have the whistle, I could show it to her."

"I do not think so, Ms. Everleigh,” Jocelyn answered cooly, face having returned to its standard of stony placidity. “I doubt it would persuade her, and you've more important matters to attend to."

The rest of Miss. Hookfinch’s visit had passed without note, and Zadie ultimately decided against mentioning the error of her invitation to Bertram, as he may have included her simply to be thorough in their search. After all, Miss Hookfinch was a brunette as Lady Evangeline was, and had a similar squareness to her jawline. She put that issue out of her mind, and it stayed out of her mind for the rest of November, through December and into January. 

As the months passed by, Zadie found that every day with no sign of Evangeline only made her more restless in her desire to find the girl, less able to dismiss the longings and the wonderings that came into her mind. She supposed this only made sense-- how often, after all, had she had heard “an Alpha cannot help but give chase” presented as self-evident truth? Yet Zadie had thought herself free from the instincts of the chase when it came to matters of the heart. She had never been the type to become _preoccupied_ with an Omega, to pursue them in a dogged way. But now Zadie felt an itching need to know even the smallest things about Lady Evangeline, to collect an inventory of details as complete as her mapping of Cardenfirth, a catalogue of shy glances and slender fingers and locks of softly curling hair dark as a raven’s wing. She wanted to make constellations from the spots in her eyes, so she might memorize them as she had long ago done to the landmarks of the skies. How often had her father had called it a shame, that his daughter should devote so much of her life to the hunt and the stalk yet abandon those predatory instincts once she stepped into the ballroom? 

Perhaps he would be pleased to see that Zadie had proven just as susceptible as any other Alpha in the face of Evangeline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to note for the record that Zadie saying she has no idea who Ivy is despite having been repeatedly told about her is not an error, she just generally does not remember a fucking thing my guy.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which another familiar visitor deepens Zadie's concern, and a change of plans is proposed to her. 
> 
> Or
> 
> In which Zadie thinks she's dying because one (1) cute girl told her her brain was good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for mention of emotional abuse and apologia, because Zadie's dad Sucked and she kind of dealt with that fact by going into denial pretty hard. Skip the paragraph that begins "It was not that Zadie considered herself entirely without flaw" to avoid it.

The deeper they delved into winter, the less of a draw Cardenfirth’s grounds were to the young ladies of the ton. On one hand, this slowed rate of visitors gave Zadie more time to stalk and shoot and survey, but on the other, it impeded her search for Lady Evangeline even further.

She thought of Evangeline now almost every hour of the day, her mind wandering back to the memory of the Omega even when she was meant to be focusing on her work. She knew now why poets used the metaphor of Cupid-- she felt she'd been shot through by this girl, slim and feathered like an arrow and twice as piercing. Wounding her to her core. Zadie felt as if she'd become ill with the madness of rabies, a sickness that could leave an animal thirsting and yet unable to swallow water, could drive them senseless and sleepless. A delirium that could bring beast of the night into the glaring day, creatures of the brush into the open field. She felt like a sapling split in twain, like a tree struck by a bolt of lightning, like an unmoored ship bobbing in strange waters.

She wondered what Evangeline might be doing each day and each night. Had she even now received the invitation to Cardenfirth, and was awaiting their next dance? Had she not yet been invited, and was she bereft as a result? Did she think Zadie should have forgotten her promise to find her? Or worse than forgotten, _abandoned_ it? Did she think there was another Omega Zadie had met at the ball or afterwards? Someone she liked better? The notion was absurd-- she’d met many Omegas at the ball and many other since, and Evangeline alone had pierced her soul, but did the Omega _know_ this? 

She wondered about her welfare. The Omega had seemed terribly shy, a trait Zadie was wholly unused to seeing in the fairer dynamic. Zadie had met demure Omegas before, mysterious Omegas, but not one who was _shy_. They seemed to Zadie to always be so boldly assured, so self-possessed of the allure of their dynamic. She was unused to an Omega so openly vulnerable, so emotive, so sorrowful. Evangeline did not herself seem to be of a wilting disposition, yet one had the impression that she’d _been_ wilted, that some marvelous light of hers was being quashed beneath a bushel. The more Zadie thought back to the ball, the more she worried that Evangeline must be in some sort of jeopardy. _An impossible situation_ , she had said of whatever had her so quickly surrender any hope that they might see one another again. 

The idea that Evangeline might be in some sort of peril, and Zadie impotent to rescue her, seemed as if it might just suffice to drive the Alpha mad. She tried to reassure herself that such a grim scenario would be improbable outside of a melodrama or a fairy tale.

To make matters worse, Zadie was beginning to suspect that Bertram was attempting to convince her to turn her attention away from the search for Evangeline. He’d suggested she entertain the thought of getting to better know the Omegas she’d already ruled out. He’d developed an almost daily habit of reminding Zadie of the stacks of reciprocal invitations and notes of thanks she had received from certain young ladies and their mothers. Zadie did not know why Bertram should think this tact would do anything but further rile her restless impatience. How could he think it honorable to pretend her heart was still hers to give away, her affections not permanently tied to another? How could she turn her attention away from something as monumental as _love_? How could he not see how she felt? 

Further, how could he not see that the Omegas who had visited Cardenfirth may have appreciated her handsome face and well formed body, but they did not seem to particularly care for her _thoughts_. 

Admittedly, it was only recently that Zadie herself had been awakened to this disquieting fact. 

After her discussion with Jocelyn about Miss Hookfinch and Mrs. Mason, Zadie had begun to pay more attention to the conversations she had with the Omegas who were not Evangeline. Almost without fail, the Omegas introduced to Zadie would immediately blush, smile coyly and begin to play a game where they looked to her face and then away again, then once more back. They replied to her questions in a breathy sort of voice that made Zadie worry if their corsets had been laced too tight. They giggled at everything she said even when it was not meant as a joke, and as they laughed they would place their hand on her arm and allow the touch to linger. They stared at her more than was polite to do so-- but she had always supposed such lapses in etiquette were quite understandable considering she was so magnificently handsome. This was a sort of flirting behavior Zadie was quite familiar with, as many an Omega had been given to such open admiration during her season. The Omegas who visited her now were all very beautiful, and very merry company-- yet she could no longer find their manner as charming, nor their flirations as enticing, as she had before. She had assumed this was only because her heart belonged to another. She had no problem with the Omegas themselves, they simply were not Lady Evangeline.

But continued reflection had brought about the revelation that _none_ of the Omegas she’d danced with at the masquerade had been so effusive as this. Nor had they been so prone to responding to her attempts at banter with vague humming while staring at her mouth or at her arms-- which despite Mr. Bloom’s best efforts still bulged visibly beneath the fabric of her sleeves when she raised her teacup to her mouth. She was beginning to wonder if the Omegas’ giggles might be oddly timed because they had ceased to listen to what she was actually saying, or perhaps even that they thought the things she said were silly enough to be laughed at. 

This, she had realized, was what Jocelyn and Bertram had been on about in the weeks before the masquerade. 

She almost resented them for pointing it out to her, for now it was impossible for her to ignore. Some of the Omegas, especially those who spent upwards of a week at Cardenfirth, had shown waning enthusiasms for her company over time, but she had always assumed that this was due to the length of the trip wearing upon their nerves. Yet her observations were now forcing her to consider that it might be as Bertram said, that they considered her character _secondary_ to her appearance. 

She could hardly fault the Omegas for finding her handsome, for she was quite handsome, yet it was upsetting to imagine that the Omegas might be attracted to her in a solely superficial way. It wounded her to think that her character might be viewed as a deficit, but it also lashed her soul even tighter Evangeline, made her heart all the surer that the Omega was her truemate. _Evangeline_ had cared for her thoughts. _Evangeline_ had thought Zadie’s mind a marvelous thing. 

It was not that Zadie considered herself entirely without flaw. When her father had been alive he had tried to encourage an Alphalike competitive spirit between Bertram and she by frequently reminding them of their own shortcomings. He had joked often to Zadie that she hadn’t the head for politics that Bertram had, nor his literacy or wits. And to Bertram he would jest about Zadie being his superior in the arenas of sport and brawn, and the more adventurous of them. Father had possessed an odd sense of humor, and at times it had been difficult to tell that these remarks _were_ jokes-- but they must have been, as the things he said would be rather cruel otherwise, and fathers were not allowed to be cruel to their children.

Zadie put aside those thoughts for now, returning her focus to Evangeline as she laid backwards on the chaise lounge in Cardenfirth’s library, staring at the ceiling with her hands clasped over her stomach and twiddling her thumbs. Her heels were propped up on the crest of the scrolled headrest, her head lolling back off of the opposite edge where the cushion dropped off. It was a few weeks into the new year, and while Bertram had assured her there were still Omegas yet for her to meet, she was beginning to feel disheartened. She was considering saying “dash it all” and returning to her first idea, that of soliciting for Evangeline in the newspapers.

Zadie’s woolgathering was interrupted by the entrance of Jocelyn, who informed her of the arrival of their new guests, a Lady Flora and her mother. Zadie had a mind to ask the valet what she thought of the idea of posting an article, but apparently her lounging had put wrinkles into her jacket, and Jocelyn would not be placated until she had done her best to minimize them. 

After a minute or so spent at the mercy of the other Alpha’s scolding and garment brush, Zadie managed to escape by darting into the hallway. Servants were bringing their guests’ luggage out from their carriage, toting valises and trunks down the hall and up the stair towards the guest rooms. She opened the door to the parlor, finding Bertram and Belinda already present. The other two occupants of the room, Lady Flora and her mother, looked up at her arrival. 

Zadie stared at Lady Flora. She had been told staring was rude, but in this case she could not help herself. For not only was this Omega _not_ Evangeline but, with her golden hair and distinctly striking blue eyes, there was very little possibility anyone with sight could mistake one for the other. In fact, she was _almost_ entirely certain that she had been Lady Snowfall, who should have already been crossed off the list. Zadie looked towards Bertram with bald confusion, and the Alpha merely waved her over and then proceeded to introduce her to Lady Flora as if nothing was odd. 

She spent several minutes enduring pleasantries with Lady Flora and her mother before Bertram excused himself, leaving Zadie and Belinda to spend several more minutes continuing the conversation. Well, leaving Belinda to continue it at least, for Zadie was rather put off and found herself vocalizing only in noncommittal grunts. Neither Lady Flora nor her mother seemed to mind this particularly, aiming covert little glances at her and to each other in the typical flirting game. Zadie was not at all in the mood for flirting at present. She stuck her fists into her pockets and then immediately removed them, peeved by the sensation of the smooth silk lining catching on the rough skin of her knuckles. She missed the mackintosh pockets she’d had put into her wool trousers and waxed overcoats.

When she could not take a moment more of banal social notions, she made a gracious excuse to leave so that she might seek out her brother and settle her consternation.

“Bertram,” she hissed, voice quiet but urgent, once she'd found him skulking down the hall in conference with Wilkins, “it appears there has been some manner of mistake made.” Zadie breathed deeply inwards and outwards, trying to suppress the burning scent, the rising heat, of her displeasure. After all, Bertram must have some reason for not realizing what was wrong. She often did not realize things were wrong herself, though this matter seemed quite self evident to her. 

“Lady Flora is one of the Omegas I danced with, certainty, but not Evangeline-- rather she was Lady Snowfall. The same error was made with Miss Hookfinch, but I simply assumed you'd wished to be thorough. But Lady Flora does not even have dark hair, she's entirely bright in her complexion. She could not be Evangeline, yet you've invited her to stay nearly a week.” She looked up and around, not wishing to be caught speaking ill of guests-- she had no specific displeasure with Lady Flora, she simply was not the Omega she sought. She looked back at Bertram, who was doing quite a good job of being nonplussed in the face of this disconcerting information. “Are you alright, brother?” she asked, leaning down closer to the other Alpha. “Is the task of helping me find my mate proving too taxing to you?” 

Bertram put his hand over his eyes in a strange sort of gesture, his face pinched, and sighed.

“I assure you, Zed, it is only taxing on my _nerves_ , not my _wits_.” He removed his hand and squared his posture, waving his hand to dismiss Wilkins, who gave her a rather concerned look before going. “Lady Flora is receptive to you, is she not?” Bertram asked.

Zadie furrowed her brow.

“What would that matter? She is not Lady Evangeline.”

“You are going to have to accept the possibility that you won't find Lady Evangeline, Zed.” 

“Well, I certainly will not if you insist on spending all this time chasing faulty leads,” Zadie scoffed, crossing her arms and feeling rather more irked than baffled at the moment.

“Lady Flora is quite eligible. Her dowry is nothing to scoff at, and her family is wholly respectable. You have functioning eyes, last I checked, so you can very well see she's comely. All of the Omegas that have come to visit, I might add, have been similarly well matched for you.”

“I'm not _in love_ with Lady Flora. I am not in love with any of the other Omegas,” Zadie explained with more patience than she felt her brother deserved.

“Of course you are not,” Bertram snapped, “because the moment you decide they are not Evangeline you become as engaging as a dead fish. You stop asking questions, you stop following the conversation, you forget about them the moment they are out of your sight. You aren’t giving them a _chance_.”

“Why would I need give them a chance when I am already in love?”

“ _Because_ , as I ha-” Bertram paused suddenly. “Wait. Why are you not in the parlor right now?” Zadie shrugged.

“I wished to speak to you, so I told them there was a sick horse the stablemaster needed my help to lift.”

“Zed,” he said, voice flat.

“Yes?” Zadie asked. When her brother continued only to stare at her, she cleared her voice and prompted him again. “Yes?”

“ _Get back down there,_ ” Bertram growled with a frustration that Zadie felt was much more appropriate to her situation than his.

“I can't,” she explained. “It has not been enough time to lift a sick horse.”

“Tell them the problem resolved itself,” he ground out between bared teeth.

“How would such a problem resolve itself?” she scoffed. “Are they to think the sick horse got up by itself?”

“They can think the horse grew wings and flew off into the sky for all I care!” 

“But-”

“We’ll discuss it _later_ , Zed.”

Zadie came back into the parlor to the abrupt noise of hushed conversation stopping. She likely looked as irritated as she was, though she was managing to keep her scent in line in the hopes it may downplay her churilousess. It wasn’t Lady Flora’s fault, after all.

“I’ve returned,” she announced solemnly, sitting back down in a stuffed chair. “Bertram said to tell you that we own a pegasus.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ivy, a lesbian: *is being oppressed*  
> Zadie, jolting awake at 3am in a cold sweat: Something Is Wrong


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Zadie fails to make a good impression on Lady Flora and Jocelyn faces adversity in the course of doing her job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to be quite late with this chapter. I'm running out of buffer chapters again and I have been having trouble writing as of late for Life Reasons. Including holiday Socializing and losing heat, electricity, and hot water in my home for like five days X__X

As it turned out, when Betram had said “later” he had meant “after Lady Flora and her mother have departed.” Seeing as this egress was not forecast to occur until the week was nearly out, Zadie was left frustratingly adrift and with a great deal of unanswered questions. Bertram’s insistence that she give up on finding Lady Evangeline was puzzling, and his belief that she would be able to put the search for her truemate aside to chatter with other Omegas was even more so. Perhaps if he were a Beta she might assume he simply did not understand the _passions_ of an Alpha, but as an Alpha himself, how could he expect her to be so duplicitous? How could Bertram ask her to be dishonest to her own heart, when she was already struggling to resist the urge to be honest with her visitors, who seemed to vie after her even though her astounding handsomeness impeded them in getting to know one another. She ached to explain to them that her heart had already been won by another, that there was no sense in trying to snare an affection which had permanently tethered itself to a singular being. It was dishonorable to make an Omega believe she may be available for courtship when she well knew she was not.

Regardless of the how and why of Bertram's thinking, such deceit seemed to be exactly what he expected of her, based on his insistence that she spend the morning showing Lady Flora and her mother around the manor. If it had been the forest she’d been showing them (or even the garden, which was rather boring in comparison to the rest of the grounds) she might muster some excitement, but Bertram insisted it was too cold to entertain outdoors. It was true that last week’s snowfall was still lingering on the ground and weighing down the branches of trees. Zadie never minded such terrain (thick snow was certainly better than the unpleasant crumbly slush that warmer weather might reduce it to), but Belinda reminded her that Omegas certainly did, as they were supposedly quite prone to chills. 

And so a stroll indoors it would be. 

“You must read a great deal, Alpha,” Lady Flora commented when Zadie’s meandering tour brought them to the library, the fair Omega looking around with bright eyes at the shelves of books.

“No, I do not,” Zadie replied, herself content with sitting upon the lounge and staring at the glass-domed display of british songbirds that was her favorite aspect of the room.

“You- you do not?” the Omega asked.

“No,” Zadie confirmed. There was a silence that lingered for a few seconds.

“I hope you might forgive my curiosity in wondering at this, Alpha, but there are a great deal of books here for someone without any interest in reading,” Lady Flora said.

“There were a lot of books here when father was alive. When he died, my brother took most of them to his own estate, but when he returned this summer he decided the shelves look ugly when they are empty, so he purchased yards of various books, so now there are a lot of books again,” Zadie explained. “I believe he also said he did not wish for visitors to think I did not read, so I shall tell him he was successful insofar as your impression. The books are probably the most boring part of the library, I think. The specimens are very nice though.” 

“Ah,” Lady Flora said, and then trailed off into silence. Zadie looked up from the taxidermied birds to see her inspecting a stuffed boar that was believed to have dated to Zadie’s great-grandfather’s era. It was not a great likeness of a living beast, and a bit worn in places, but certainly these aspects were inevitable aspects of the relic’s age, and added to its charm.

“Mama and I were saying,” Lady Flora continued, her soft voice breaking the lull that had set in as she examined the beast, “that from what we have seen of your home, it certainly looks… different, than I remember. Different than it was at the ball.”

Zadie nodded sharply.

“Oh, yes, that would be because of all of Bertram’s decorations. Much as with the books, he imposed his aesthetic preferences upon the ballroom and the hall and such. As soon as the masquerade was over I ensured everything was put back where it normally is.”

“Ah.” Lady Flora’s smile was slightly tight. “It is just that, when it was done up for the ball, it looked very... elegant. This is…” the Omega gave another intensive look at a stuffed boar “...how it typically is?”

Zadie nodded, a smile of pride tugging upon her lips for perhaps the first time since her discussion with Bertram upon the arrival of their current guests.

“Quite an improvement, isn’t it? Much homier, none of those gilded elements and fashionable swags and such.” 

“So, the way the house currently is arranged… that represents _your_ aesthetic preferences?” Lady Flora looked towards her expectantly, but Zadie was uncertain what Lady Flora expected her to say, other than to confirm she was correct.

“Yes,” Zadie replied, scratching the side of her nose. Then, realizing Lady Flora might be attempting to convey impatience to continue the tour, stood. “Shall we go to the ballroom now? There’s a doorway that connects them.”

“Are there any other manors of yours on the estate?” Lady Flora asked as Zadie led the way across the library and then crossed the threshold into the grand hall. It took Zadie a moment to process the question, for she was focusing very hard on moderating her strides as she walked. Zadie had thought that, if nothing else, all the recent Socializing foisted upon her had at least aided her in learning how to walk slowly enough that she did not leave less statuesque people in her wake. Yet it seemed she'd been wrong, for whenever she and Lady Flora walked together the Omega’s mother seemed unable to keep pace, despite appearing to be young and in fine health. It was almost as if Lady Flora’s mother were deliberately attempting to trail behind the both of them, and it was entirely distracting. 

“There are a few small hunting cabins scattered about across the grounds,” she answered, after what she hoped was not an uncomfortably long pause. There was also the village, which had many houses, but other people lived in them and so Zadie was fairly certain they did not belong to her.

“Some might assume, given the size of your estate,” Lady Flora said carefully, “ that you would have a larger manor than this. Or… or at least that so much of the total floor space would not be taken up by the hall and the guest quarters. If one were to eliminate those rooms, it would become immediately apparent that the remaining space is not at all adequate to raise a family in.” 

“If one were to eliminate those rooms, my study would fall down into the hole where the parlor had been, and much of the roof would probably cave in,” Zadie confirmed, nodding. 

“But one would not have to alter the extant house-- after all one needs such spaces for hosting events and guests-- one might simply add an addition," the Omega beside her said. "Or, perhaps, a second house on the property? Have you never considered such things?”

“No,” Zadie answered. There was another silence, and by this point they had transversed the span of the ballroom-- Lady Flora’s mother still trailing behind despite Zadie’s efforts-- so she decided to move to the next attraction, opening a modest door which for the most part blended in with the wall.

"This is the servants’ hallway,” she explained, “but we are also allowed to walk in it. There is not anything on the walls here, unlike the other hallways. I suppose the servants do not like to have things on the wall, and this is after all the hallway that they own."

Lady Flora laughed, but she sounded more confused than mirthful. Perhaps in her own home the servants did not let her walk in their hallway, which was unfortunate, as Zadie had found it was terribly convenient for accessing different rooms in the house.

"Down there is the staircase to the servants hall and quarters.” Zadie pointed out a door down the hall which was slightly ajar. “We cannot go down there unless we are invited, but if you like we can peek.” She looked over to Lady Flora, who remained several paces back from the threshold of the hallway, her smile quite strained and her eyes darting about in confusion. Perhaps she did not feel comfortable intruding. Zadie returned to the ballroom and closed the door behind her. The Alpha was relieved to note that Lady Flora’s mother was no longer trailing behind, but had now stepped in rather closely to her daughter. Not knowing where to go from here in terms of conversation, Zadie pointed at the trophies decorating the wall of the grand hall. “Those are all mine, you know. Did you notice them?”

“Yes I,” Lady Flora looked the array of stag heads and mounted antlers over. “I noticed them. And the chair in your study, fashioned out of antlers and pelt. And the… chandelier of antlers, over your dining room table.”

“I made those myself, actually,” Zadie couldn’t help but boast.

“And you…” Lady Flora hesitated, seeming almost at a loss for words “...do you use antlers in _all_ of your decorating?”

“Most of it, but I have considered having trophies of other species made as well.”

The Omega hummed in thought. She did not look best pleased. Perhaps she had hoped for more variety in the specimens and trophies.

“Well, Alpha, this... decor might be your preference, but what shall you do when you are not the only person calling this house a home? What shall you do when your wife wishes to change the decor?” Lady Flora asked, her scent strangely perturbed. She cast another glance around before tilting her face up to Zadie’s “Perhaps, at least, put up new wallpapering?”

“Why would she?” Zadie asked in return, too surprised by the suggestion to hide her befuddlement. “We’ve had the same wallpaper for the past seven years and it’s still working. The walls are covered, are they not?”

“Well,” the Omega replied, “some might say there is more to wallpaper than covering walls, and more to furniture than sitting upon.”

“That is true,” Zadie allowed, “you can nap on them too.”

 

To Zadie’s surprise, but not her displeasure, Lady Flora and her mother were far less solicitous of her company for the remaining days of their visit. It helped time pass faster, to not be stuck indoors entertaining, and it was soon the night of their departure. As Zadie was eager to have Bertram explain himself to her, she demanded her audience with him the very same night, despite Bertram's insistence it wait until morning.

The promised conversation did not go well. 

Though, Zadie maintained, it could have gone far worse than it had. 

Zadie may have swept a bunch of papers off the desk in Bertram and Belinda’s makeshift office, and her brother may have thrown an inkpot at her with enough force to leave a welt, but Zadie had _not_ acted on the impulse to defenestrate either Bertram _or_ his desk from said office. Even though there was not one, but _two_ extremely tempting windows in the room which would lend themselves easily to such a purpose. Unfortunately Jocelyn, Zadie's best hope for a sympathetic ear, seemed set to ignore this. Instead of congratulating Zadie for her restraint, she had focused rather on the minor details of her ink splattered shirt and ripped jacket. Upon catching sight of her post-argument state in Zadie's bedroom, the valet had made an immediate effort to wrest the disheveled articles from her person, insisting they be sent for laundering and repair as soon as possible. But Zadie was far too fraught to force herself to maintain the stillness needed for such a task, and Jocelyn had eventually retreated when the task of matching Zadie’s frenetic pace proved indomitable. 

“And then! Oh, and _then_ you would not _believe_ what Bertram said to me next,” Zadie cried as she paced across the floor of her bedroom. She swung her arms in a gesture that, should she have been less intensely vexed, she might have realized was rending the armscye of her jacket even more wretchedly. “He said I was _not_ in love, simply _infatuated_ , and that my focus on Lady Evangeline was preventing me from the chance of finding _actual_ love! He said, listen to this, he said that we have _already_ hosted all of the brunette Omegas that were invited to the ball, and thus I must have _already_ met Evangeline, and dismissed her for some petty reason! He called it a _certainty!_ ”

“He still does not give credence to the idea that someone might have snuck by him?” Jocelyn asked, observing the other Alpha's motions from some distance.

“He said it was quite impossible,” Zadie replied, shaking her head. “After he and Belinda left the entranceway, he had his footman fellow watching it. Bertram said the man swears that no one else came into the house.”

“The first footman, I suppose it was?” Jocelyn asked.

“I... suppose?” Zadie answered, having not thought very much about it. How did one determine which footman was first and which was last? The odd question gave her pause, her pacing slowing. Jocelyn pounced upon this opportunity like a tiger, wrestling Zadie’s jacket off before she'd realized what was happening, then attacking her shirt buttons with similar fervour. The frenzy lasted only a moment, and then Zadie was standing bare chested in trousers and dress shoes, and Jocelyn was looking over her jacket with an expression of helpless grief befitting a soldier watching a brother-in-arms bleeding out in a trench. The shirt was nowhere to be seen, so Zadie assumed it had already been spirited away by a maid.

“Jocelyn,” Zadie said, feeling rather forlorn herself, “I think of her all the time.”

Jocelyn seemed on the brink of asking who on earth she was referring to, but then her expression cleared. “Evangeline, you mean?”

Zadie nodded and sighed, her outrage having bled out of her rather quickly, leaving her bereft and chilled by sorrow. And also, perhaps, by lack of clothing. She sat at the edge of her bed, head bowed, staring down at her pinching shoes.

“The Earl may have a point,” Jocelyn noted after a period of silence. “Are you sure that you do not wish to give the other girls a chance, Ms. Everleigh? You may yet discover in them the same aspects that charmed you in Evangeline.”

Zadie shook her head firmly.

“No?” Jocelyn prompted, curious rather than chiding, in that way that she had of making Zadie feel like she actually _wished_ to explain herself.

“She is different. She said I have an odd way of thinking, and that it is wonderful, and I should not allow others to make me ashamed of it.” Zadie raised her head, the full force of her mournful stare now aimed at the wallpaper. “Many people have told me my mind is odd, Jocelyn. Some have even told me it is alright, or not _so_ shameful. But no one has ever told me it was _wonderful_. No one ever suggested it was something I might consider taking _pride_ in.” Such an explanation felt inadequate, yet this was the reason Zadie kept coming back to, again and again, as incontrovertible proof that Evangeline _had_ to be her truemate.

“Perhaps I shall speak to the footman,” Jocelyn mused. Zadie looked over to her, unable to follow the path she had taken to this new topic. “To see if his memories might hold any clues not noted the first time,” she elaborated.

“Do you think it should do any good?” Zadie asked.

“I think it is worth it to try.”

Zadie considered this, but without much optimism.

“Well, be sure to ask him about footprints," she advised. "Those are very good clues.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SORRY I JUST COULDN'T RESIST THE JOKE.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jocelyn faces minor adversity in the course of doing several things which are _not_ her job, new information comes to light, and Zadie changes tacts.

Four days after Lady Flora and her mother departed Jocelyn came to the breakfasting table with a rather firm grip on the arm of a liveried servant. The man, a tall Beta Zadie vaguely recognized, appeared more than a touch annoyed. She looked the pair over with some curiosity but not a great deal of excitement. Bertram had also noticed them and was quite affronted by their presence, judging by his scent and his narrowed eyes. Belinda, preoccupied with reading a newspaper, did not so much as glance upwards herself. 

“Nicholas has something he must tell you,” Jocelyn announced.

“Is it not something which might wait?” Bertram asked. “This is _highly_ irregular.”

“You forgot to say ‘good morning,’” Zadie noted between bites of toast. “Good morning Nicholas,” she addressed the Beta, who seemed rather recalcitrant about this whole matter. “I assume you are Nicholas because you are not Jocelyn. I’ve already said good morning to Jocelyn.”

Nicholas made an odd little face at her.

“I beg your pardon, Lord Weldwick,” Jocelyn said. “I supplied Nicholas with a courtesy period of three days in which to come clean on his own. By his inaction, he has chosen this time and place as his venue.”

“I don’t care to be involved in petty quarrels, Jocelyn,” Bertram said. “If you wish to accuse my footman of something, do so to Mr. Wilkins. I trust him to sort the matter.” 

Jocelyn looked at Bertram with an intensely unimpressed expression which he did not deign to acknowledge. Instead the Alpha took up his knife and fork to cut into his egg, emphasizing his dismissal.

“Nicholas appears to have met Lady Evangeline,” Jocelyn said. Bertram’s knife made a screeching sound against his plate. Zadie’s toast fell out of her mouth and onto her plate. “He seems to have greeted her at the door on the night of the masquerade.” Zadie rose, knocking her chair backwards to the ground with the abruptness of her motion. Belinda looked up from her paper idly, the corner of her toast pinched daintily between her fingers and her reading glasses dipped low on the slope of her nose.

“Really! Oh Jocelyn, I could kiss you,” Zadie exclaimed, then decided: “I _shall_ kiss you!”

“No you will _not_ ,” Bertram snapped, holding out an arm to bar her from completing her task. He turned his attention back to Jocelyn. “I know you wish to cheer up Zed, Jocelyn, but what you say is impossible. Nicholas reported no arrivals after I left.”

“I told his Lordship that no new guests arrived, which is the truth,” Nicholas confirmed, defiant in his bearing, before looking to Bertram. “I beg your forgiveness for the disruption of your morning, my Lord. Though I certainly resent being accused of lying, I would never take it into my mind to pester your Lordship with such trivialities.” He attempted to bow despite the grip on his arm making it a rather lopsided motion.

“Nicholas.” Jocelyn spoke in a crisp, clear voice, flat in tone and entirely dispassionate. “I beg of you, do not require me to embarrass you in front of our employers by making it necessary that I point out the omission in your telling of events.” 

This statement seemed to raise the Beta’s dander quite a bit, for he lifted immediately from his half formed bow and twisted in the valet’s grip to scowl at her.

“I’m telling the truth, you miserable- they’d _already_ been let in!” he barked at her.

Bertram’s scent flared with a hint of burning hair, and he placed his cutlery (previously frozen mid-egg) neatly down on either side of his plate, then interlaced his fingers atop the table. 

“ _Who_ had been let in, Nicholas?” he asked quietly.

“Evangeline!” Zadie exclaimed. “Come now brother, do try to keep up.”

Bertram did not acknowledge her explanation and, having apparently surrendered all hope of returning to a normal breakfast, fixed his attention to the footman before him with burning intensity. To Nicholas’ credit, he did not quail under the scrutiny, but he did appear a shade paler than he had before.

“Jocelyn thinks it _imperative_ that I tell your Lordship that a short while after I took my post on the night of the masquerade, perhaps a quarter-hour, an invited guest returned from having gone outside for some air and requested readmittance,” he explained.

“Did she say her name was Evangeline?” Zadie asked. “Did she give a surname? What did she look like? Did she give her favorite color? Was it green?” 

Nicholas blinked, shooting another odd look towards her. “I don’t remember that she spoke at all. She was an Omega with black hair, and she was dressed in gold as a lady in the court of Louis XVI. Her lady’s maid did most of the talking."

"Did you not request their names?" Bertram asked evenly, his scent the only outward hint of how incensed he surely was.

"I requested evidence of the Lady's invitation, but her Beta became… irate. She stated the Omega had already been admitted by her Ladyship earlier that night, and that she had merely stepped out for but a moment to get fresh air and lost her bearings with regards to the door she'd exited. She considered it an outrage for her Lady to be questioned so, and she _demanded_ that his Lordship and her Ladyship be involved. And since, if she were an intruder, this would be the last thing she would wish, it was clear she was being truthful?” Nicholas had perhaps meant this last statement to be declarative, but the burning look Bertram was giving him transformed it into more of a plea. The Beta looked to Belinda, who Zadie could see was giving him a similar, albeit more pitying, version of this same look from over her newspaper. His voice and gaze wavered. “The, the Lady was dressed quite fine, and as, as neither of them were wearing cloaks, and, and as it seemed excessive to, to interrupt your Lordship and-”

“He let them in,” Jocelyn summarized. “And then, about a half hour before supper, they left without cloaks on. Given there has been no luck finding her amongst the invited guests, it is quite likely that the Omega was Lady Evangeline.”

“But Jocelyn,” Zadie noted, “there are major discrepancies that challenge your theory.” Zadie wished with all her heart that this person should be Evangeline, but some of the further details Nicholas had given had dampened her excitement. Having spent several months now stuck in a repeating cycle of excitements and disappointments, she had learned to be rather skeptical. “Firstly, Evangeline was alone when I saw her. Secondly, she was dressed as a _dustbroom_ , not a woman of the court. I certainly would have noticed had she been in a powdered wig and black robes.”

“It _is_ possible, Alpha,” Belinda piped up, this break in the case apparently sufficient to pry her attention away from the business section, “that you may have missed the Beta. We are known for our ability to be overlooked. In addition, the shape of a dustbroom’s bristles is not entirely unlike the shape of the broad skirt of a sack-backed robe.”

“Evangeline was not-”

“Sack-backed refers to the cut of the dress,” Jocelyn cut her off, having evidently predicted the subject of Zadie’s protest, “also known as a robe à la française. It is not made out of a sack.”

Zadie considered these points. 

“I suppose her companion could have been fetching her something during our dances, making it seem to me that Evangeline was unaccompanied,” she allowed, “but she was most certainly dressed as a broom. She told me herself.”

“Lord,” Bertram whispered the oath beneath his breath, no longer staring Nicholas down but instead rubbing circles in his temple, “she's found someone as dumb as she is.”

“She’s not dumb at all, she spoke quite a bit with me,” Zadie countered.

“Of course,” Bertram muttered as if he’d not heard her, continuing to rub and pinch at his forehead, “of _course_ she picks the _one_ Omega I haven't vetted. Of _course_!” 

“Brother, do you not see that this could well be the most wonderful news?” Zadie asked, perplexed and not a small amount hurt that he should not be thrilled for her.

“No, I rather do not,” he glowered, first at Zadie and then at Nicholas. “In the first, it means a trusted member of my staff has seen fit to _lie_ to me.”

“My Lord-” Nicholas began. 

“Go and tell Wilkins that I shall speak to him of this matter later,” Bertram bit out, cutting him off. “I trust him to see to the consequences. That will be all, Nicholas.” Any blood that had been left in Nicholas’ face drained out. Once Jocelyn released his arm, he straightened his posture and raised his chin with all the dignity of a condemned man before the firing squad. Zadie watched him go with sympathy. 

“In the second,” Bertram continued once Nicholas had departed, peeling his lips back from his teeth in displeasure, “it means _Lady Evangeline_ is surely no proper Lady at all. An Omega without references of any kind, without pedigree, a complete unknown!”

“We do not know she is not a proper Lady,” Zadie pointed out.

“If she _were_ a proper Lady, she would have been _invited_ ,” Bertram snapped. “She would _not_ have snuck in as soon as we left our post, on the arm of some scheming Beta. How can we be certain she is not some manner of parvenu?” He let out a wordless exclamation of anguish, his expression becoming stricken. “My word, for all we know she’s not even _that!_ A dollymop, for all we can say.” This possibility seemed to upset the Alpha greatly, so Zadie attempted to reassure him.

“That matters not to me,” she said. “I will marry her regardless of her station.” Unfortunately and inexplicably, this assurance left Bertram even more irate than he was before, his face reddening.

“Zed, please be reasonable for once in your life.”

“I am being entirely reasonable. You are the one who's been unreasonable, Brother,” Zadie countered, crossing her arms and lifting her chin in defiance.

Bertram gave her a hollow stare, then looked towards Belinda, no doubt imploring her intervention. But the Beta had returned her attention to her paper at some point in their squabble, and was quite consumed judging by the slight pink of her tongue sticking out between her lips as she read. Bertram put his head into the cradle of his hands.

“This is probably a good time to tell you, Bertram,” Zadie said, voicing a realization which had just come to her in that very moment. “I have decided to take out a personal advertisement for Lady Evangeline after all.”

Bertram lifted his head and looked for a second as if he was about to growl at her-- but only for a second, before his face and scent fell into a sort of resigned displeasure.

“Fine, Zed. I suppose it no longer matters that such an advertisement will inevitably attract swarms of riffraff. For all we know Evangeline numbers among them." He sighed, at last returning his attention to his eggs. "That said, once you think you’ve found her, I expect to be informed promptly and I would like to have the final say on whether she is an appropriate bride for you. _Before_ you begin courting.”

“Very well,” Zadie agreed. Bertram could have whatever order of say he wished. It would change nothing about the fact that Zadie would be marrying Evangeline regardless.

 

“Ms. Everleigh, I’d like to make a request of you,” Jocelyn said later that day as she worked a brush through Zadie’s hair in front of the vanity.

“Do you want me to kiss you after all?” Zadie asked, tilting her head back so she might look up at her valet from her seated position, “I will.”

“No, I’d rather you not,” the Alpha said, then sighed. Zadie might guess that she was feeling conflicted, though it was an expression she rarely saw Jocelyn wear, especially not upside-down, so she could not be certain. “I’d like to offer a post to Nicholas, here at Cardenfirth.”

Zadie tilted her head back up and frowned, a crease appearing between her brows in the mirror.

“Bertram would not like for me to poach someone off of his staff,” she noted. “He is very particular about them.”

“You won’t be poaching him. Mr. Wilkins is going to sack him.” 

“He _is_?” Zadie asked. “Why?”

“He was foolish enough to let two strangers into the Earl’s masquerade. And even more damningly, he failed to report the incident when questioned directly. A dismissal is not out of order.”

“If that is true, why should you ask to hire him for Cardenfirth, then?” Zadie wondered at this mystery to herself and then, hitting upon a possibility, gasped and spun around in her seat. “Jocelyn, are you in _love_ with him?”

Jocelyn looked at Zadie as if she had asked the Alpha if she was in love with a dairy cow.

“No. Turn back around.” Zadie did so. “If I may be frank, Ms. Everleigh, I rather dislike Nicholas, and I believe the feeling to be entirely mutual. But when Mr. Wilkins feels himself embarrassed, as he likely will when he hears of his direct subordinate’s behavior, he often responds with a rather excessive degree of censure. I would not be surprised if he extended his influence to effectively barr Nicholas from working in service of any sort again, something which could well leave him and everyone he supports in penury."

“He is one of the folks who have to work in order that they may obtain money,” Zadie deduced. "Well, it is very magnanimous of you to think of the fellow."

"Kind of you to say, Ms. Everleigh,”Jocelyn replied, “but I must disenchant you by noting I also hope the offer will cancel out the debt he feels I owe him for breaking his nose."

“Is that what you did, to make him confess to having seen Lady Evangeline?” Zadie spun back around at this alarming news. She had not thought Jocelyn capable of being so cruel.

“No. Turn back around.” Zadie did not. Jocelyn sighed. “He confessed because I asked why he would tell the Earl he'd not let anyone in, when I had seen him doing so. There was no roughing up involved.”

“And you did not tell _me_ what you witnessed?” Zadie asked, quite hurt that such information should be kept from her. Jocelyn fixed her with an exasperated expression.

“I lied, Ms. Everleigh. In order to catch him in his own lie. I saw no such thing.”

“Oh, _lying_ ,” Zadie said, turning to face the mirror again. She forgot about lying sometimes.

"In any case, we will soon need additional hands around here, especially once the Earl takes his people back to Weldwick with him, and while I am accompanying you to London.”

"Why shall we be going to London?" she asked, not at all excited by the prospect. London was crowded and boring and full of people she did not know, and was best avoided unless strictly necessary.

"That is where Evangeline hinted that she lived, was it not?” Jocelyn pointed out. “It is where all eligible Omegas will soon flock, either way, and where it will be easiest for her to find you."

"Oh… I suppose you are right, Jocelyn." Zadie set her jaw, feeling very much as a sailor of myth might while preparing for battle against a sort of aquatic colossus. Presuming they made aquatic colossi out of brick and soot and boring party conversations. "To London we go, then."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've been missing Ivy I have good news about next chapter.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ivy discovers she has not been forgotten, a revelation which can only be processed through epistolary fiction.

“Have you really been locked up here all day?” Millicent called, waving a folded sheet of newspaper in order to disperse the morbund scent that had built in their room over the day. The Beta’s nose and ears were stung red from walking home in the cold, her wet socks adding a subtle squelching to her steps. “Never mind, of course you’ve been,” she muttered, perhaps thinking her words too quiet to be detected by Ivy’s ears.

“It hardly seems worth it to leave,” Ivy responded self consciously from within the cocoon of quilts she’d made for herself on their bed, eying her sister through a small gap in the coverings. There were, by her best estimate, about four days until her heat would begin. Gertrude had advised Ivy against getting into the habit of nesting so early into her cycle, as this was considered childish and unsophisticated among the haut ton. An Omega of good breeding does not start her nest until the day of her heat. Normally Ivy was grateful for Gertrude’s advisement in social matters, but this was one area in which she found she did not care much at all what was considered proper for an Omega to do-- nesting was preoccupying, and soothing, and there seemed no good reason not to do it when the impulse seized her. If her eventual mate proved to be opposed to such conduct, she would do her best to curb it, but for now it harmed no one. Of course, Ivy likely felt such sentimental attachment because she had always shown a tendency towards nesting when she found herself in the morbs, even before presenting as an Omega. Being wrapped up in a heavy quilt felt almost like an embrace, almost like the rest of the world was muffled. She sometimes nested even when far outside of her heat just for the comfort of it. 

“What shall I do but wander the house and get in Auntie's way?” she bemoaned, feeling rather in need of pitying at the moment. “You know how things are for me right now.” Though fanciful journaling, and the pleasant surprise of a letter from Miss Culpepper asking after her, had helped Ivy in rebounding from the lowest of her moods, she was still stuck inside with little to do and so was hardly a picture of cheer. “The weather is miserable and I’m utterly bored.”

“A fate worse than death for an Omega, so I’ve been told.” Millicent said with gentle humor, departing from the sliver of the room which Ivy could see between her blankets. A shift in the surface of their bed told her the Beta had sat by her feet. “Well, it shall be spring soon enough, so unpeel yourself little butterfly, for I have rather exciting news for you.”

Ivy considered grunting and rolling over in response-- a forthcoming heat always made her rather surly. But the prospect of something interesting to distract herself with, and an awareness that her sister was hardly a fair target for her churlish attitude, prompted her to shift her nest so that her head stuck out from a hood of fabric. Now able to see the world around her somewhat better, she squirmed until she was sitting up and facing Millicent.

The Beta’s brows arched above her sparkling eyes in an almost vaudevillian way and she brandished the newsprint page she’d brought as if flirting with a fan. 

“I believe, Ivy, that you are in the papers!” she declared. 

“Oh,” Ivy said, her interest shriveling immediately. “Am I not _often_ in the papers?” Ivy knew her tone to be bitter, and could only hope her scent was not distastefully so. Another Omega would be lucky to so written about without the mark of major scandal, she reminded herself. Somehow Ivy’s apathetic response seemed almost to double Millicent’s excitement, and she pointed to the headline that by careful folding she’d given prominent placement on the page.

“ _Evangeline_ is in the papers,” she said, tapping the large text with a finger. Ivy began to ask what in the world that could mean, until she was struck all at once by what it _must_ mean.

“What?” she yelped, making to snatch the paper from Millicent's hands before realizing her own were still tangled in their quilts. She wriggled frantically until she could free them and then snatched the page, her eyes dancing across the item.

 

**A Cinderella Hidden Among The Ton!**

**__** _Alpha Seeks Out Her Mysterious Dance Partner_

ONE Gentlewoman Alpha, manager of her titled brother’s provincial estate, has set off to London after causing quite a stir among the populace by declaring via newsprint her intent to marry an Omega whose identity is entirely unknown.

This Gentlewoman, of whom we have prior written, is a figure you may recognise from our reporting on that Notorious Masquerade. The selfsame one who, in disguising herself as a mere Gamekeeper, sought to make a love match. Evidently she has, but in a girl whose disguise went beyond a fanciful dress and a tasteful domino mask. This mysterious Omega, whom our Gentlewoman claims wore a golden gown and only identified herself as “Evangeline,” thoroughly enchanted the Alpha’s heart after only a single meeting. We've no knowledge of any debutantes or otherwise eligible Omega by that name, dear readers, and we urge you to submit to us any prospects you may know. 

This Gentlewoman has been quite steadfast that station is no matter to her-- quite a bold stance, but one that, perhaps, an Alpha without a forthcoming title feels free to take. Readers, you know our fanciful hearts, we keenly imagine some fair Lady’s maid, whose Mistress lent her a gown, who with a jittering heart, may be hearing of this declaration at this very moment! Evangeline, our Cinderella, your Prince is calling for you!

 

Ivy suddenly felt quite like one of those Omegas in novels who were forever swooning with excitement-- as she read the article the blood coloring her face seemed to drain and the air in her lungs to vacate and she felt very near to fainting. When she looked to Millicent, it felt as if the roar of the ocean was in her ears. The paper slipped through her fingers and fell onto her lap.

“It _is_ you, is it not?” Millicent asked over the muffling clamour of crashing waves, “It has to be.”

Ivy would have liked to deny it, but before she could persuade her mouth to speak her expression had already given an indisputable confirmation to her sister, prompting immeediate gloating from Millicent. 

“It is! I knew it!” she crowed, lifting her fists in victory and grinning wildly. “And you told me you’d just talked about _birds!_ ”

“We did!” Ivy quite nearly squeaked.

“Well! It seems birds were enough to get this Alpha thoroughly besotted with you. Evidently you are capable of more allurement than I have given you credit for.” Millicent laughed, leaning closer to Ivy and mock whispering her next question. “What else did you do to so thoroughly snare her, I wonder?”

“I, I only danced with her, only once,” she mumbled defensively, completely unprepared to mount a more substantial protest against the Beta’s insinuations. It counted as ‘only once’ if you danced two sets in a row without returning to the wall, did it not? It did not, but Ivy attempted valiantly and vainly to convince herself otherwise for a moment. “Perhaps, well, I suppose we technically danced _twice_ ,” she admitted. 

Millicent gasped in exaggerated shock and jerked back, splaying one hand over her collarbone and pressing the back of the other to her forehead as if _she_ might swoon. “ _Two_ dances, Ivy? Who is it this _seductress_ who replaced my baby sister?”

“Hush!” Ivy definitely did squeak this time. She could feel a hotness upon her cheeks and her ears which surely meant her blush was visible even with her face still partly shadowed under quilts. She glanced back at the paper in her lap, then up again at her sister, and at the sight of the Beta’s smirk looked quickly away and covered her face with her hands. “Oh, do not look at me that way, Millicent! Do not make so much of it!” 

“Tell that to your lady admirer. Better yet, tell it to Gertie-- she would not cease talking about this story all morning. Apparently it's in nearly every gossip rag. This is simply the one she agreed to let me borrow off her.” 

Ivy shook her head, uncovering her face from behind trembling hands. She took up the paper, reading and rereading the article as if it might change the text, might reveal some hidden code or meaning which would neutralize its implications, might coalesce into something harmless. As if it could be defused of it’s destructive potential through her sheer refusal to accept it.

There was a creaking noise and a shift in Millicent’s weight on the bed. “It's unbearably _romantic_ , isn’t it?” the Beta’s voice came to her as if through a pea-soup fog.

 _It is_ , Ivy thought, though it was a thought she refused to give voice. It could have been romantic, perhaps, were it not for everything _else_ about the situation that made it impossible.

“What shall we do, then?” Millicent asked, leaning forward in an attempt to catch her eye over the edge of the news sheet.

“What?” Ivy croaked in reply, unable to attend to her meaning with her mind in such a frenzy at present.

“She's looking for _you_ , Ivy,” Millicent pressed, raising both her eyebrows pointedly. “What shall we do about it?”

“She's not looking for me,” Ivy argued, in part against Millicent and in part against herself. She turned the paper over, so that she could no longer see the article, and held it out for Millicent to take back. “She’s looking for Evangeline. She won't find her in me.”

Millicent looked at the proffered newspaper as if it had insulted her profoundly. Rather than accept its return, she crossed her arms and fixed Ivy with a look of annoyance.

“She won't find her anywhere _else_ , either,” she pointed out.

“Then she will find another.”

“You think she's going to give up?” Millicent scoffed.

“She'll have to,” Ivy reasoned, almost pleaded. “If she's to be in London for the season, she'll eventually meet another girl she fancies and...” Her throat felt suddenly tight, as it sometimes did during her asthmatic fits, though there were no other signs so it must only be emotion choking her. She was being ridiculous. She barely knew the Alpha, certainly could not be in _love_ with her. She had no reason to care if she found another girl. Had reason to wish for it, even, for the sooner the Alpha abandoned her quest the less danger there would be of her being somehow exposed. “...And it shall be resolved,” she finished, unfortunately sounding about as weakly as she felt.

“Ah yes,” Millicent deadpanned, rolling her eyes in dramatic fashion, “fortunate for you that Alphas are known for giving up so easily on something they want. You know what they always say: 'if an Alpha sets a challenge for themselves they will certainly abandon it at the first distraction, especially when they declare it publicly so that their honor is essentially on the line.'”

“Sarcasm is a crude form of humor,” Ivy mumbled.

“I am a crude form of Beta,” Millicent replied easily, her frustration clear in her scent despite her efforts to keep her voice light. “Really now, Ivy, do you plan to carry on as if this changes nothing?”

“What do you presume it to change, Millicent?” Ivy snapped, at last dropping the paper on the bed between them and then rolling over on her side and making to rebundle herself in her quilts. She was bound to begin to stink of misery soon, and she did not plan to air her moods so obviously to Millicent.

“Well for one, Ivy,” Millicent said, then muttered something and got off of the bed, squatting next to it on the floor so she could glare at Ivy through the peep-gap of her bundle of covers. Ivy attempted to roll over to face the other side of the room, but her sister reached out and held her swaddled form still, something Ivy was particular helpless to counter in her current wormlike form. “For _one_ , there’s an Alpha in London you actually _like_.”

“I am acquainted with several respectable Alphas,” Ivy said, stubbornly refusing eye contact.

“But do you _fancy_ any of them?”

Ivy closed her eyes.

“Were I attached to any one particular Alpha above the others, I would already be engaged.”

“Do you mean to claim that you are _not_ besotted at all with this Alpha?” Millicent pressed. “The Alpha you were so excited about after the ball? The Alpha you just went through an entire melodrama’s worth of emotions over in the span of five minutes?” 

“I am saying that even if I _were_ , it would be immaterial.” 

“But you _do_ fancy her, don’t you?”

Ivy grunted. She ducked her head in an effort to cover her face fully, her motions no doubt looking about as dignified as a hog digging for truffles with its snout.

Millicent poked at her a bit more, but when Ivy’s lips remained resolutely sealed the Beta gave up and, after changing out her slush soaked petticoat and stockings for a dry set, left their room.

Truthfully, Ivy felt there must have been some sort of mistake made, some distortion or mix-up by either the paper or Dame Robin Hood herself. Perhaps they'd had a decent conversation (up until Ivy muddled it with her hysterics), and certainly they'd danced, but for her to have made such a mark on the Alpha seemed inconceivable. Seeking out a second meeting she could perhaps imagine as existing within the realm of plausibility, but declaring an intent to _marry_ her? After only two dances and a single conversation? This Alpha was really too hasty.

Ivy could not help but feel she'd unwittingly tricked the Alpha. Said something that had sounded far more profound or interesting than it had actually been. Without the novelty of her presumed gender, there really was nothing special to her. Dull little Ivy who yammered on about silly things. What had _she_ done that was so special?

Well, at least she now knew that Dame Robin Hood had been the Earl's sister. Though, she realized, she still didn't know her name. Perhaps it should be better that she did not. 

Goodness, what if they _met_ each other? The Alpha was in London even now. How would she manage not to blurt everything rushing through her mind the moment she saw the woman? Would the scent of her send Ivy into the same delirium that had overtaken her good senses at the ball? Ivy felt as though she were a steam engine, her thoughts under such pressure they were in danger of catastrophic explosion at the smallest dent in her facade. 

Feeling stuffy and suddenly restless, Ivy squirmed first her head free of her cocoon and then her arms, then began to pace the length of the room. Bundled in her nest and nightshift, she'd begun to sweat, and the rumpled fabric had stuck to her body in patches which quickly cooled. She shivered slightly and flounced the damp fabric of her shift to shuck it from her flesh, the cold air raising goosebumps over her skin. She had to calm down or she'd throw herself into her heat early and muck up everyone's schedules.

She came to the shelf where she and Millicent kept their books and took down her journal, opening it on the table and flicking to an empty page, then took up her pen and began scribbling furiously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good job Ivy you totally fooled her.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ivy gets out of the house for once, encounters an unwelcome suitor, and views a work of astonishing beauty at an art gallery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gave an advisory about Ivy being misgendered at the start of the story, but I wanted to give a heads up that it's going to get a lot more pervasive as Ivy gets out of the house and socializes more.

The official opening of the London Season was still months away when Lady Broadshire sent out invitations for a private gallery showing, which meant that Ivy could not be certain what manner of persons she might encounter at such a function. She had never been invited to a gallery showing before, but she assumed it was a ton-ish event, and surely most of the ton were still abroad or else at their country estates. Any trepidation she felt about the guest list, however, was outweighed by her excitement at the prospect of at long last having _something_ to occupy her besides wallowing in boredom or despairing of Dame Robin Hood. She had spent so many of the winter months feeling like a mariner stranded in the doldrums, going mad for want of some sort of landmark or direction, that the simple opportunity to go out and do _anything_ and see _anyone_ was stimulating enough to smother any misgivings.

When the day of the gallery showing came Ivy was pleased to find that the event was indeed enjoyable not only for herself but for Millicent as well. Having arrived somewhat early, they were able to freely mill about the main hall and adjacent rooms and admire the paintings displayed. Ivy had forgotten the degree to which Millicent, like their Ama, had an appreciation for art. Their home had housed a collection of paintings inherited from their grandfather, and though living away from the capital limited their ability to visit pieces directly, their Ama had collected lithograph reproductions and textual descriptions of collections to admire. Ivy liked looking at paintings well enough herself, though she was not so interested by the symbolism and the artist’s intent so much as the simple prettiness and lifelike quality of the image, which she expected might be said to be very Omegalike of her. She listened contentedly to Millicent’s observations on the pieces, nodding along, for the first half hour. But as time passed the gallery became more crowded and her anxiety increased.

Though the crowd was mainly Betas, there were far more Alphas and far less Omegas than she'd expected. Further, it seemed that gallery events were unlike drawing room and ballroom events in that the Omegas did not cluster together but remained firmly with their individual escorts. This, and the fact that Ivy was terribly aware that her back was rather exposed to any Alpha who might come up behind her, had her tightening her grip on her sister's arm, the faded blue muslin of the Beta’s dress sleeve wrinkling under her increasingly sweaty grasp. She was only able to pry herself from the limb when they found a sanctuary to settle in-- an area close by the entrance, where Lady Broadshire lingered and chairs had been set against the wall. Millicent began fanning the both of them rapidly, as the number of Alphas in the small gallery was rendering the air overly warm and pungent even with the cold wind whistling outside.

They had been sat down together for only a short while when a Beta woman whom Ivy faintly recognized approached them.

"Miss Farrow," the Beta greeted Millicent. "I am so glad to find you, for I simply _must_ hear your thoughts about the Dutch still life Lady Broadshire has hung around the corner."

" _Must_ you, Miss Tetherage?" Millicent droned. Ivy adjusted her posture, entirely _coincidentally_ happening to dig her elbow against her sister's side as she did so. Millicent gave her a momentary glance of irritation but sighed and stood up, arranging her skirt. "Alright then, come on Ivy," she said, offering her hand.

"Oh, that is right, you are chaperoning your _brother_ ," Miss Tetherage said, putting her glove to her cheek with a look of surprise and mild embarrassment that implied she had entirely forgotten Ivy’s existence. Millicent's expression demonstrated excellently how little she bought this notion. "I would not ask the little one to get up, of course," she continued with a sympathetic look towards Ivy, "I know he has a delicate constitution."

"Then I suppose I must disappoint you," Millicent said through a thin smile.

" _Must_ you, Miss Farrow?" Miss Tetherage smiled back, her own grin solicitous, warm, and wholy undeterred. "So long as he stays in his seat he should be quite safe. It is not as if you are leaving him alone. Lady Broadshire is but a few paces away."

Ivy saw Millicent think about saying 'go hang' so clearly it could have been written out in ink in the whites of her eyes. 

"Please do not let me be an obstacle to you enjoying yourself, sister," Ivy said before Millicent could turn thought to words. Millicent had many talents, but artfully navigating ton diplomacy was not one of them. This may be an obvious trap, but it was not one that either of them had the knowledge necessary to wiggle out of. "I shall be content remaining here, as I cannot say I know much at all about Dutch still lives," she added for good measure. 

“All right," Millicent sighed, giving one last glower at their general surroundings, "but I shall be back as soon as I can be.”

With Millicent departed from her side, Ivy braced her expression into a serene smile and waited for whichever Alpha had engineered their separation to reveal himself. At the beginning of her first season, she had been rather naive to the fact that her isolation was typically orchestrated rather than coincidental, but she knew better now. 

The underhandedness of the method hardly revealed a single culprit, but it allowed her to eliminate some possibilities. It was unlike Lord Thomas or Mr. Chandler, neither of whom seemed to mind Millicent's company, or Lord Westhull, who was always very direct in his approach. She _hoped_ it would not be Lord Hanfort, as she had felt she had made herself quite clear to him when he'd called upon her last. But of course if he _did_ wish to persist in pressing his suit, he would be wise to separate her from Millicent beforehand, as approaching Ivy in the company of her sister could easily see him knocked on the seat of his trousers. She supposed she might hope it to be Lt. Wiskam, considering the alternatives.

She did not have long to speculate before the likely culprit revealed himself by appearing before her. 

“So this is where you have hidden away, Mr Farrow,” Lord Flaxby remarked, a gently teasing grin accompanying his smooth voice. 

“My Lord,” she acknowledged reflexively. She had forgotten if one was supposed to bow on such an occasion, and as she preferred to err on the side of being too diffident rather than disrespectful she rose to her feet and gave him a short bow. “Good afternoon.”

"May I?" The Alpha asked, inclining his head towards the recently vacated chair beside her. 

"Please, do sit," she said, for then at least she would also be permitted to sit, and might not strain her neck looking up for how near he was standing to her. 

Ivy supposed that she had little in the way of empirical evidence to justify her dislike of Lord Flaxby. It was simply that the way he passed his eyes over her made her extraordinarily uneasy in a way she could only ascribe to Omegan Instinct. And there was the discomfiting fact that when he came too close his scent rather viscerally reminded her of runoff from a tannery. Superficial though it might seem to decide such matters by scent and instinct, she had eliminated him from the ranks of prospective mates if only because she feared she might toss her breakfast all over his shoulder should she ever be compelled to scent his neck.

Of course, it was Ivy's misfortune that those prospective mates which she considered most fitting for her, and those who thought her most fitting for them, were not contained to the same population. Lord Flaxby was a prime example of this discrepancy. He had proven impervious to subtle hints, if not encouraged by them, judging by how solicitous of her attention he had grown over the course of the prior Season. He had a way of always appearing nearby when Ivy was feeling most nervous and unsettled, furthering a less than favorable impression.

"I must confess, I had not realized that I was hiding away," she said, belatedly registering his opening remark when he did not initiate further conversation.

"Is that not what you have been doing for all of the winter?” Lord Flaxby asked, his slight smile vanishing. “I did not see you at any of the country balls or the skating fêtes."

Ivy was uncertain if Lord Flaxby was teasing or if he genuinely did not realize such travel was beyond her means. Perhaps it was considered only polite to _pretend_ to believe such things were within her means. Perhaps it should be crude of her to admit otherwise. 

“I remained at my Aunt’s home over the winter, my Lord. I suppose that this could be considered hiding, but only in the sense that a rabbit may hide in its own burrow.”

“Then what should you think of me, Mr. Farrow, were you to hear that I’ve spent much of my winter chasing rabbits from their burrows?” he asked, resting his elbow upon the arm of his chair and his chin upon the back of his hand as he leaned ever so slightly closer, voice and eyelids lowering in a coy way that indicated there to be some insinuation in his speech that she was uncertain of. Ivy attempted to breathe through her mouth.

“I have heard that most Alphas enjoy sporting pursuits,” she replied. “Have you any stories you might share?” It was hardly the most graceful redirection, but Alphas could often be diverted by the chance to discuss their accomplishments, and she was at least technically keeping to the subject he had raised. Fortunately Lord Flaxby required no further prompting before he began recounting a recent shoot he’d had.

Lord Flaxby was some ways into his tale when Ivy noted a murmur rising in the room, a sound that floated apart from the commonplace buzz of polite conversation and mincing steps. She was tempted to glance around, but that would be terribly rude to Lord Flaxby, so she kept her eyes towards him. A servant's voice cut above the chatter as he announced “his Lordship, the Earl of Weldwick, and sister, Ms. Zadie Everleigh.”

 _Weldwick_ tickled at the back of Ivy's brain, making her lose track of Lord Flaxby’s words entirely. That title was familiar to her somehow. Incredibly familiar. She was sure it didn't belong to any of her suitors, but why otherwise would she recognize it so distinctly? 

Before Ivy could give further thought to the name, a cry of "Hullo everyone!" resounded through the room.

Propriety forgotten in a blaze of shock, Ivy turned completely around, eyes wide, and suddenly she could not only hear but _feel_ her pulse rushing in her ears like a spring-melt swollen river down the back of a mountain. She watched as Ms. Everleigh followed her verbal greeting with the same artful bow she'd bestowed upon Ivy at the masquerade. Her clothes were certainly less fanciful and less tightly fitting than the costume she’d worn at the ball, but there was no mistaking the broadness of her form even under cover of a pedestrian jacket and straight trousers. And her voice, cheerful and booming and utterly unencumbered by decorum, was instantly identifiable despite the six months passing between when she'd last heard it and now.

Finishing her bow with a flourishing toss of her hair, the woman stood with the easy, self-assured stance that it seemed all Alphas sought to master, but few ever did. When most of her features had been hidden by a mask, Ivy had guessed Dame Robin Hood might be handsome-- but now she realized she'd been entirely mistaken-- the Alpha was _gorgeous_. 

Ms. Everleigh's face was a harmony of masculine and feminine charms, sharp and soft in turns of masterful contrast. A wide mouth with a broad upper lip and a hawkish nose recalled the careless handsomeness of a demigod-- gave her the air almost of a roman bust come to life, Cupid and Athenia at once. Her thick chestnut hair, combed back from her temple and pushed behind her ears, flowed over her shoulders and added a sort of roguish viking charm to her classical beauty. Even from some distance away Ivy could see the stunning green of her eyes, a hue that the darkness of the ballroom had only hinted at. Ivy’s hands, which she'd been holding demurely clasped in her lap, were suddenly tense, her short nails digging into the seam of her glove.

“-ster Farrow? Little one?”

Ivy started, jarred out of her shameful ogling by the sharpening voice of the Alpha seated beside her. She turned immediately back, embarrassed. “I'm s sorry, what was that?”

Lord Flaxby was frowning, his eyes narrowed. His gaze flickered between Ivy and something behind her, no doubt Ms. Everleigh. She was fortunate that a number of guests had also turned to the newcomers out of affront or curiosity, for at least she did not stick out as the only person whipping her head around to gawk. It took a great deal of Ivy’s willpower to not sneak another glance at the Alpha, and she realized she was gnawing on her lower lip only when Lord Flaxby’s gaze turned to her mouth.

“Are you, too, a follower of the goings ons with Ms. Everleigh and her… Evelyn, was it?” Lord Flaxby asked carefully. 

“Evangeline,” Ivy corrected unthinkingly. This response seemed to assure the Alpha some. The cloud of his scent, though it remained still rather more potent than Ivy would hope, lost a bit of it’s rank edge. He seemed to consider something, scanning the room around them, and after a moment smiled.

“Would you like an introduction to her, little one?” the Alpha offered. “I should be glad to do the honors.” 

_Yes_ and _No_ fought for dominance over the battlefield of Ivy’s tongue, both replies endeavoring to slip through her teeth and make themselves known, and she swallowed hard before answering.

“I c could not inconvenience you, my Lord,” she stalled.

“It is no inconvenience, little one.” 

“Oh, but, that is,” she further stalled, this time entirely without grace.

“Perhaps, Mr. Farrow, you are thinking that the last thing you need is another Alpha falling in love with you at first sight?” Lord Flaxby teased. This was not what Ivy was thinking, of course, but in her panic she did not protest, for she was glad enough to be offered an innocuous explanation even if it painted her as rather conceited. “As you are invested in her romance,” the Alpha continued, “you might fear that the moment Ms. Everleigh sees you she will all but forget Lady Evangeline.”

 _She absolutely shall **not**_ , Ivy thought with a heat that was almost anger. But then she recognized how bizarre such a thought was and did her best to quash it and the emotion that accompanied it. It would be entirely irrational of her to have such a feeling, seeing as she was both "Mr. Farrow" and "Evangeline." Further, she was entirely uncertain who or what she would even be mad _at_ besides the vague concept of Ms. Everleigh fancying her more in trousers than out of them.

“But I’m sure you’ll agree, little one,” Lord Flaxby continued, his smile spreading wider across his face as he eyed her in a way that told her he’d found something about her reaction intriguing, “that it would be better that she know if Ms. Everleigh is a cad sooner rather than later.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our lovers meet again, but not everyone knows it.

The matter of introduction apparently settled without need of Ivy’s assent, Lord Flaxby more or less helped himself to her arm, guiding her up and across the room beside him. Ivy was helpless to protest, for she was suddenly finding it rather difficult to breathe, none the less open her mouth to speak. Her eyes were fixed upon Ms. Everleigh’s broad back, which was currently turned to them. What if Ms. Everleigh should recognize her? The ballroom had been dim and the air soupy with a mixture of scents and she'd worn a mask but would that be _sufficient_? Knowing the Alpha to be so determined to uncover her, she felt with dread that it could not possibly be so. _I must form a plan_ , she thought, but it was a thought that came to her far too late to be useful, as by the time it occurred to her their approach had been noticed by the Alpha who must have been Lord Weldwick. He glanced their way and then pulled sharply upon Ms. Everleigh’s sleeve, going upon his toes in order to hiss something into her ear when she bent to the side in response to his tug. Once he let go of her jacket she turned to look in their direction. Afraid of being recognized, or that she should become entranced should she gaze upon Ms. Everleigh’s face again, Ivy ducked her head to stare at her slippers.

Lord Flaxby exchanged perfunctory greetings with Lord Weldwick before turning his attention to Ms. Everleigh.

"Ms. Everleigh, I’m glad to find you in good health. I haven't seen you since the passing of your father, God rest his soul. He was unequalled among Alpha," Lord Flaxby said from what seemed to be somewhere extraordinarily far above Ivy’s head. 

"Many people have been saying that to me," Ms. Everleigh observed from even higher.

“I can certainly believe that. There is really no man who could take his place,” Lord Flaxby added. Ivy was fairly certain he was deliberately insulting the Earl, and she had a flailing moment of hope that Lord Weldwick might attack him in response, and thus divert the interaction enough to provide Ivy the opportunity to flee.

“Do you have business to discuss with my sister, Lord Flaxby?” Lord Weldwick asked instead, leaving Ivy with naught but the hope of spontaneously manifesting the ability to become transparent through sheer force of will.

“No business, Weldwick, but to introduce to her acquaintance my fair companion here,” Lord Flaxby said. “Mr. Iven Farrow, may I present Ms. Zadie Everleigh?” 

Ivy bowed and then forced herself to briefly raise her head and face the Alpha, for looking away now should only make her seem more suspicious. Ivy made the severe miscalculation of daring to glance into her eyes for a moment-- up close they were even more stunning, vibrantly green like the lushest forest flecked with sea glass tumbled smooth in the sands. She could scarce look away from such beauty. Yet Ms. Everleigh’s gaze was transient as a butterfly’s rest-- it seemed barely to alight on her face, the casual flickerings of her eyes glancing only a moment upon her chin and then moving away from Ivy entirely and settling somewhere in the middle distance above her head.

“Ah, Mr. Farrow. I've heard a great deal of talk about you lately, little bachelor,” she said.

“H have you?” Ivy croaked, averting her own gaze to the side.

“Indeed! My brother just told me I should not encourage you,” the Alpha supplied cheerfully, indicating the other Alpha with her thumb, and then added with equal if not greater cheer: “I’ve no idea what he means!” 

Ivy forced a meek smiled upon her face, though her mouth felt as if it were full of straw and her breath had fled her lungs as a pain suddenly bust forth in her chest, like her heart had been crushed like a tin can within a fist. 

“I’m sure that I could not say, Ms. Everleigh,” Ivy managed to reply, doing her level best to keep her voice blythe. And failing, apparently, from the way Ms. Everleigh’s expression fell from mild excitement to profound despair in an instant.

“Ah, I’ve made you sorrowful,” the Alpha observed, her voice grave and embarrassed. Ivy glanced up to see color rise in the Alpha’s cheeks-- Ivy had _never_ seen an Alpha blush, and so ferocious was the longing that the sight provoked in her that it transfixed her completely for a moment. “I’m so sorry, Omega.”

“N no,” Ivy protested, her voice pitching comically high in her nervousness. “Please, Alpha, there is no need for you to concern yourself with, with my fickle Omegan moods. It is your forgiveness I must beg-” her voice died away when she realized Ms. Everleigh was getting to her _knees_ before her, when she saw an expression of such genuine forlornness on the Alpha’s face that it stunned her tongue.

“Was it something I said, which caused you to feel unhappy?” Ms. Everleigh asked, leaning in far closer than appropriate though Ivy found herself not at all put off by this. The Alpha’s voice was hushed, almost private, now that she’d leveled herself with Ivy, who quickly cast her eyes to the floor, her whole body trembling. "I have been told I am sometimes too fond of my own voice."

Ivy could imagine only too well how she could be. The deep Alpha tone rung warm and smooth like a hot spring, with the slightest rasp that reminded her of the bite of sherry. _Omega_ , she scolded herself, _you are truly_ ruined _by this Alpha_. Ms. Everleigh smelled of woodsmoke and in Ivy’s mind she recalled sitting at her Ama's knee, and her sight began to blur and her hands to tremble. The crackle of fire and the taste of dark, almost bitter, cocao. A voice which was rough and deep and brittle, trying to repeat the stories her mother had once told Millicent before bed. “ _Once you eat of the food of fairyland, you shall never be able to return, for the food of the human realm will never again satisfy you, but taste like crumbling dust in your mouth..._ ”

She was faintly aware of Ms. Everleigh-- her voice and her scent and the heat of her body-- moving away, and she almost followed until the squeeze of Lord Flaxby’s hand on her arm reminded her where she was. 

“Zed, can you not see you’re _frightening_ the poor boy to _death_!” Lord Weldwick’s growl cut into her thoughts, pulling her in full back to reality. He was grasping Ms. Everleigh’s arm with both hands as if pulling her back, though it seemed rather improbable he could manhandle the other Alpha if she’d had any mind to resist. Ms. Everleigh seemed entirely confused for a moment, looking from her brother to Ivy and back. 

“Oh!” The Alpha suddenly sprung back and raised her hands in supplication, the motion nearly yanking her brother off his feet, rather confirming Ivy’s suspicions with regards to the Alphas’ relative abilities to throw their weights around. “I must beg your pardon, Mr. Farrow, I should never have approached you so closely. I had not realized there was any chance I should appear amorous or, or threatening in my intent. I assure you,” she continued, “I am entirely without designs upon you. I’m solely devoted to Lady Evangeline and even were I not, menfolk are not at all to my tastes.” Ivy could faintly recognize why she might believe such a statement to be reassuring, though it felt to her roughly as devastating as a crate of dynamite. She blinked hard in an effort to disperse the moisture which had gathered in her eyes.

“ _Do_ take care not to make such a foolish mistake again, Ms. Everleigh, for you would not wish to gain my ire,” Lord Flaxby said, voice icy. Ms. Everleigh looked at him as if she had wholly forgotten he existed-- an expression without any malice or annoyance, just a sort of pure blank shock, as if he were a party cracker she’d stepped upon accidentally.

“Do not worry, Lord Flaxby, I have no amorous intention towards you either,” she said in a tone clearly meant to reassure. “But I shall avoid standing close to you as well, if it makes you likewise afraid of my intentions.”

Lord Flaxby’s skin, which was normally quite pale, flushed ruddy with blood. “You know what I meant, _Everleigh_ ,” he nearly spat.

“Yes, I do." Ms. Everleigh nodded. "That’s why I answered you, instead of asking what you meant.”

Lord Flaxby’s scent flared nauseatingly, and Ivy feared for a moment that he might launch himself at Ms. Everleigh’s throat. But then the Alpha settled himself, set his jaw and shook his head and affected a cold, patronizing smile. 

“It seems that you are exactly as intelligent as I remembered you to be, Ms. Everleigh,” he said. “You certainly deserved everything your father so often said of you. Would you not agree, Lord Weldwick?” 

Ms. Everleigh seemed rather unwitting, or perhaps simply uncaring, of the derision in Lord Flaxby's tone, but Ivy saw Lord Weldwick's hands tense into fists at his sides, and when she glanced to his face she witnessed a muscle jump in his jaw. 

“Well!” Ms. Everleigh exclaimed brightly after a moment of tense silence, “we will now go back to looking at paintings then.” She grasped her brother’s arm and compelled him to follow her lead in turning her back to Lord Flaxby, though the Earl glared over his shoulder briefly before having no choice but to comply.

Ivy’s mouth tasted of dust. Well, that was that, then. 

“Are you really so put out to be left in my company, Omega?” 

Ivy sucked in a sharp breath, realizing her scent had soured as an expression of her dismay at the whole situation. “No I, I apologise I was just-” What could she possibly say? That she had been ossified in terror of being recognized up until the moment where she was not, when all that stony fear had crumbled into mealy, devastating disappointment? That she has never both wanted and unwanted something so intensely before, and it was throwing her completely into disarray? That she had emerged safer than she could have hoped from such an encounter, yet felt mortally wounded all the same?

“Hoping Everleigh might take interest in you?”

She didn't answer, but her face was probably flushed pink at the accuracy of his guess. Lord Flaxby leaned in conspiratorially, an amused quirk to his mouth.

“I don't fault you for entertaining a bit of vanity, little one. There isn't an Omega in the world who doesn't dream of having every Alpha they meet fawning at their feet. But there is simply no accounting for taste.” He sighed, brushing imaginary lint from her shoulder with his thumb in a gesture that was rather more intimate than Ivy would like.

Ivy realized Lord Flaxby's purpose in introducing her to Ms. Everleigh, now that her mind was able to focus on anything besides sheer panic. She'd been removed from a place where she was in view of the hostess and approachable by other Alphas, where her sister expected her to remain. Lord Flaxby had likely assumed any discourse she might have with Ms. Everleigh would be brief, if not due to the Alpha's indifference then due to Lord Weldwick’s dislike of his company, leaving them alone together on the other side of the gallery hall. 

He was indeed adept at chasing rabbits from burrows. 

“We grow most through the disappointment of our desires, Omega,” Lord Flaxby mused, breaking her from her thoughts. He gave her a smile which crawled down her spine like a spider with icicle shoes. “It teaches us to have gratitude for what is right in front of us. Do you not think s-” 

A faux-jolly exclamation of "Lord Flaxby!" was the only warning they received before Millicent crashed into them from behind, hitting her shoulder against the Alpha's side hard enough to evoke a grunt of pain and force a minor stumble to the side. Having bodily shoved herself between him and Ivy, the Beta wasted no time untwining their arms. 

"My Lord, thank you so very much for taking care of my dear Ivy while I educated Miss Tetherage about art history,” she babbled as she linked arms with them both so that they made a comical approximation of a music hall can-can line. “I am afraid though that we must be going now."

"Miss Farrow," Lord Flaxby acknowledged, looking down to where the Beta had hooked her arm in his in replacement of Ivy's as if discovering a fly in his soup. "Must you _and_ your brother away so soon?"

"I know, I know, you shall never forgive yourself for squandering the chance to enjoy my sparkling conversation, as you are ever so fond of me,” Millicent replied with a haughty wave of her hand, and with a combination of momentum and sheer gal steered them abruptly into a turn which pointed them towards the entranceway to the gallery. “But you shall have to find a way of surviving the disappointment. The days are still quite short, you’ll recall, and I’d rather not guide Ivy through the streets in the dark.”

“If he had an Alpha to escort him-”

“Ah, but we do not need one, for we shall be leaving promptly! The matter ties up quite neatly don’t you think so?”

Lord Flaxby did not appear to think so, but Millicent had already maneuvered them to the coat check by that point and showed no sign of flagging. When the Beta was forced to release his arm so she might collect their tickets from her pocket, the Alpha rounded ahead of them and addressed Ivy instead, perhaps thinking it a better tactic.

"At least allow me to lend the use of my coach to you, Mr. Farrow."

"So soon after your arrival?" Millicent asked as she received their coats. "That does strike me as cruel to the poor horses, who were probably enjoying a nice rest. Ivy, does it not strike you as cruel to the poor horses?"

"Uhm," Ivy said, rather wishing she was still being ignored, as Millicent helped her into her cloak. "H horses, yes," she managed to murmur.

"There you have it. We cannot abide cruelty to so magnificent an animal." Millicent threw her own coat over her shoulders and took Ivy's arm firmly in hand. "Now if you'd please make way, sir." 

Lord Flaxby's thin lips nearly disappeared entirely into the displeased line of his mouth, but he stepped aside and gave a rather deep bow. The reason for the gesture became clear when they passed by him and the leveling of his mouth to Ivy’s ear allowed him to whisper a message only she could hear: “ _Until we meet again, little rabbit._ ”

Before Ivy could react they were outside. There was a line of hacks waiting outside of the gallery in expectation of the departure of those guests who had not arrived in their own coach, and they procured one quickly enough that it did not matter that she did not remember to cover her mouth and nose with a kerchief out of fear of a paroxysm. 

Of course, there was another reason to avoid inhaling once they were inside-- Lord Flaxby's persistent grasp upon her arm had rubbed his scent all over the sleeve of her satin jacket, and the acrid smell also clung to the shoulder he had rubbed his hand over. Ivy shuddered and bundled her cloak more tightly around her to keep the stench from wafting into the small space.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, sowing (ie: building Zadie's entire character in support of the plot point of her being so oblivious that she could look directly at Ivy and not realize she's Evangeline in service of Drama and Pining): Ha ha, this is great, I love this. I'm living. I'm doing this.  
> Me, reaping (ie: actually writing this happening from Ivy's pov): Oh no!! this sucks!! I hate this!! I'm dying! Who did this!?!?


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Millicent and Bertram give vastly different suggestions to their lovelorn sisters.

"That was _her_ , wasn't it?" 

Millicent’s voice hit Ivy like a bucketful of iced water the second the door to the carriage shut, smashing to bits what little remained of her composure. Whatever look crossed Ivy's face in that moment apparently sufficed as an emphatic ‘yes,’ for Millicent gasped loudly and her scent flared with excitement. It seemed Ivy's face was doing a tremendous amount of talking for her lately, despite her wishes to the contrary. Millicent began bouncingin her seat and waving her arms through the air in excitement. "Ivy! _Ivy!_ Oh! Do you know how to _pick_ them! What an absolute _specimen!_ " she gushed, thumping her back against the carriage wall and fanning herself with her hand. "I'd specifically asked you if she was handsome, yet did you warn me? No! How terrible of you!"

"I hadn't, I hadn't known," Ivy mumbled. Between Ms. Everleigh and Lord Flaxby and Millicent, the Omega felt totally in a jumble, the whirlwind of emotions that had swept through the landscape of her mind just as suddenly dissipating, leaving her strangely numbed in the aftermath.

“If only I could have gotten close enough to get a peek at her arse,” Millicent sighed wistfully, her words jarring Ivy from insensate to scandalized.

“Millicent!” she hissed, feeling her face flush with blood.

“What?" Millicent responded playfully. "I’m a woman too, am I not?”

“That is _entirely_ inappropriate,” Ivy inisted, instinctively lowering her voice to a whisper despite there being no one about who might possibly overhear.

Millicent gave her a rather saucy smirk in reply. “You’re cross because now I’ve got you thinking about ogling her too.”

“I am not!” Ivy huffed, indignant because she emphatically had _not_ been entertaining such thoughts... until the moment Millicent suggested them. Then she was abruptly remembering how well the Alpha’s masquerade costume had accentuated her well muscled form, velvet and silk like a second skin over her muscle. Had her tunic truly been so short as to give _that_ generous a view of her thighs, or was Ivy perhaps embellishing the image in her memory? _Oh, dash it all._

“Oh do calm down, Ivy, you’d hardly be the only Omega in there who was mentally disrobing her,” Millicent continued brazenly. 

“Mil-li-cent!” Ivy hissed, her face undoubtedly scarlet by now, the full force of her affront stuffed within and betwixt each individual syllable of her sister’s name.

“Of course that detail _will_ make things a bit more more difficult where we’re concerned,” Millicent reflected, hunching forward in her seat and holding her chin, her face falling slightly as her attention wavered from her amusement at Ivy’s missishness to whatever plot she was now considering. “Though it is not as if you do not have experience dealing with jealous Omegas.”

“Whatever are you talking about?” Ivy hardly dared to ask, knowing well the sort of schemes her sister could conjure, but better to know what she intended now than to resign herself to having it sprung upon her as a surprise. Millicent glanced at Ivy with a look of mixed confusion and vexation, as if she were deliberately pretending never to have heard of rain or snow.

"Seducing her, Ivy. Having her fall in love with you. It would be easier if she weren't so horribly gorgeous that every Omega in England is bound to throw themselves at her feet. Do keep up."

Ivy choked. She tried to speak, but no sound came out of her mouth and no words came into her mind for several seconds. Finally she shook her head vigorously, and thus forced herself to awaken from her daze.

“That is the most ludicrous thing you’ve ever said to me,” she managed at last. “And you should know that in making that judgment I am _including_ the time when I was a pup and you told me that people who live on mountains sleep on clouds. That is a thousand times as plausible as what you are suggesting.”

“I’m not being ludicrous in the least,” Millicent countered, sitting up and crossing her arms. “If you believe her word, she’s already in love with you.”

“Ms. Everleigh is in love with Lady Evangeline. And Ms. Everleigh is _never_ going to discover who Evangeline is- who Evangeline _was_ ,” she corrected, for Evangeline had only existed for a single night, one which was long since over. 

“Exactly my point!” Millicent exclaimed. “You are the one, after all, who insists Ms. Everleigh is bound to give up on Lady Evangeline and look elsewhere for a mate. If it is so inevitable that she will find herself another Omega, why should that Omega not be _you_?”

For one terrible moment Ivy did not know how to answer. A devilish, wretched part of her mind parroted Millicent’s question: why _should_ it not be her? She’d never deliberately attempted to _beguile_ anyone before, and could hardly imagine where to begin. Yet given that so many Alpha Lords had come to pursue her without need for encouragement, perhaps it would not be so terribly difficult a task?

But then Ivy recalled Ms. Everleigh snapping back in horror, announcing with bald frankness and for all to hear that she was entirely repulsed by Ivy. That she hadn’t the remotest interest in her. Ms. Everleigh had made it abundantly and starkly clear that she could no more imagine Ivy as her potential mate than she could consider another Alpha so-- and _Flaxby_ no less. Perhaps the Alpha had voiced these sentiments for the purpose of reassurance, but there was no doubt in Ivy’s mind that Ms. Everleigh genuinely meant what she said. She did not seem to be an Alpha to whom it would even occur to be dishonest about such things. Ivy recalled the woman repeating her brother’s words: _don’t encourage him_. 

She’d already managed to somehow accumulate a reputation as a terrible flirt-- throwing herself blatantly at an Alpha so adamantly uninterested in her would only serve to inflict humiliation upon herself.

“It won’t be me,” she said, and with these words came an eerie calm to her soul. _It won’t be me. It will never be me._ Really, this had been the best possible outcome for her. If Ivy had never met Ms. Everleigh again, she might have been stuck entertaining some silly fairy tale fantasy all Season. She’d have fixated on the ridiculous idea of the Alpha recognizing her, of the Alpha recognizing the _real_ her. Now she knew that such things were never a possibility. She could move on, as Ms. Everleigh would surely soon do herself.

“But whyever not?” Millicent pushed.

Ivy inhaled, exhaled, made her lips into the shape of a smile though she knew it must be a poor imitation. 

“Because I don’t wish it to be me,” she answered-- and her voice was so steady that she could nearly believe herself.

 

\---

 

“I suppose it wasn’t a _complete_ disaster,” Bertram mused over the sound of pattering rainfall, speaking perhaps to Zadie or perhaps only to himself. Despite his words he did not look very well pleased at all. He looked rather like a convict who had been sentenced to transportation rather than death, staring down the hulks and trying to convince himself there was a significant difference between the two fates. He was sitting back in the coach, hands folded over the swell of his stomach, staring at the ceiling. “She didn’t knock the refreshment table over, or put her elbow through a canvas. She didn't jump atop a chair, or rip through her sleeves, or natter on about _pinecones_ for the better part of an hour." It was evident now from the pronouns he used that Bertram was speaking to himself, rather than Zadie. Zadie frowned, as she did not much enjoy being considered a poorer conversationalist than her brother, even if just by her brother.

"I suppose that you have gotten what it was that you wanted out of the event, then," she muttered from the other side of the coach, where she'd jammed her head awkwardly against the ceiling, having determined this sustained contact preferable to unexpectedly bumping her crown every time the coach jarred about. Bertram's gaze snapped to her in an instant.

“I can assure you, Zed, that I absolutely did not want whatever in _damnation_ that scene with Mr. Farrow was,” he half growled, half grumbled. He then pinched at the bridge of his nose and made a tight face.

Zadie grunted and attempted to curl up ruefully into her seat, though given her size and position there was not much room in which to do so. She ended up with her neck bent at an even stranger angle by the upper corner the coach, her knees nearly knocking into her nose as the vehicle jostled about, and had to abandon the effort. She approximated her goal by hunching up her shoulders and staring resolutely at the window of the coach. 

Truthfully she was a bit embarrassed by that incident herself. It hadn't occurred to her at the time that the Omega might have been afraid of her-- sorrowful, it seemed, and quite anxious about something, but not _afraid_. Zadie considered herself an Alpha who was sensitive to emotions, or at least one who strived to be, but nonetheless she was occasionally informed that she was quite wrong about other people's feelings. She felt terrible knowing she had frightened the little one, and even worse had continued to terrorize him unwittingly until Bertram's attempt to yank her away.

“I wish you had warned me not to repeat what you had said,” she noted glumly because she felt Bertram was not accepting his portion of responsibility in the matter, and because she was embarrassed to admit she still bore the majority. “I had not realized it was something _mean_.” In fact, she still did not wholly understand what Bertram had meant by his words. What might Mr. Farrow wish to do, that Bertram was adamant she not encourage? Was the Omega considering some sort of career or hobby which Bertram disapproved of? If so, why should it fall upon Zadie to discourage him? Zadie realized absently her brother had been speaking for some time, though she had not attended to his words.

"-that boy from now on, Zed. I expect I will have a difficult enough time keeping you out of trouble without you provoking the ire of his admirers, some of whom are quite powerful Alphas, I’ll remind you. Do you understand?”

"Yes," she grunted, for she understood those parts to which she had paid attention, and as she was hoping to provide an end to this particular subject of conversation.

"What did I just say?" Bertram asked, which gave Zadie pause. She looked over to her brother in concern.

"You have forgotten already?"

"I haven’t forgotten. I want to know that _you_ understand."

"I do understand, as I just told you." 

“If you understand, then you should have no issue summarizing what I just advised you to do."

Ah, well. She had missed most of that part, but she was familiar enough with Bertram’s lectures by now that surely she could figure it out from what little she'd heard.

"You are advising me that I must be very nice and very friendly towards Mr. Farrow when next I encounter him, so that there are no hard feelings between us and so that his suitors should not fear that the little one is being bullied by me," she surmised.

Bertram leaned forward and put his head in his hands and was quiet for some time.

"Zed," he finally said, voice muffled by the fabric of his gloves, "that is not even close to what I said."

"What did you say, then?" she asked.

"I said you must _stay away_ from Mr. Farrow. If you give him even a _modicum_ of attention, his suitors will become furiously jealous and that is the last thing we need."

"That is silly,” she observed. “I have already proclaimed that I am not interested in courting him, so there is no reason for them to become jealous in the event that we become friends."

"Zed,” here Bertram sighed deeply before continuing, “when an Alpha wants something, or someone, very badly for himself, it is often impossible for him to imagine that other Alphas do not feel likewise. No matter what the other Alphas might say to the contrary."

Zadie grunted and turned her attention away from her brother, staring a while at the pathways made by raindrops slipping down the glass pane of the coach window. Bertram's advice made no sense at all to Zadie, but she was beginning to realize that Bertram’s nonsensical advice about Socializing was best followed should she wish to avoid future headache. 

"That said," Bertram continued, "it was certainly helpful that you declared your utter lack of interest loudly enough for the whole room to hear. If nothing else, such tactlessness should have ensured that any interest Mr. Farrow might have taken in you will have shriveled and died immediately.” He sighed again, and then groaned and placed his head back into his hand “...And _then_ you promptly implied you’d _bugger Viscount Flaxby_ to his _face_.”

“I did no such thing," Zadie protested, attention still fixed upon the window. "I said rather plainly I would not. And you behaved poorly too, brother. You became angry at him just because he found me to be intelligent and said father spoke well of me.” Zadie lifted her finger to the glass, following the trail of one raindrop as it skidded down the pane and out of sight. After a few rounds of this game, she noted Bertram was looking at her, his expression wilted. Zadie thought for something that might cheer the both of them up.

"Guess my favorite painting," she suggested.

“What?” Bertram asked, though his voice was rather flat and tired and almost distracted.

“From the gallery. Do you remember the gallery? We were there but a quarter hour ago-”

“I remember, Zed. I don’t know which painting was your favorite.”

“Of course you do not know, as I have not told you. You must guess.”

“I’m not going to guess,” Bertram insisted, turning his attention to the leather folio of work beside him.

Zadie pouted, looking back to the window. It was her belief that Bertram did not appreciate her nearly enough as she deserved. “ _Lady_ Weldwick would’ve tried at a guess," she said sourly. "Why couldn’t _she_ have come today?” 

Bertram did not respond, but from the corner of her eye Zadie saw his hands tighten on the folio he held. Bertram was perturbed, which was quite Bertramlike, but he was trying very carefully to hide it from her, which was rather unBertramlike.

“Brother-”

“The horse. The one with the horse you kept staring at, I suppose that was your favorite,” Bertram threw out, a reply which would not have distracted Zadie so easily were it not so obviously incorrect.

“I did not like that one at _all_. The horse appeared to be most perspiry. Clearly no one had cooled him down or brushed him, and he was uncomfortable. He probably had to stand like that for,” Zadie grasped for the duration of time she supposed it might take to complete an oil painting of such quality, “for perhaps even as long as half an hour.” In truth it astounded her that anyone could enjoy gazing upon such an unsettling scene-- she'd tried to keep the painting to her back during the event, as it drove her to distraction and made her restless to remedy a situation wholly outside of her power to effect.

“The one with the hound and the dead rabbit, then,” Bertram tried.

Zadie's frown deepened.

"There was no painting with a hound and a dead rabbit. There was a painting with a hound and a dead hare, which is entirely different, but if that is the painting you mean then you are wrong again, for that one was terrible. The hare hadn’t been field dressed properly even though the hunter had clearly used shot to bag her. The cavity was probably full of feces from the entrails, completely spoiled. An utter waste. Come now Bertram, I was hoping you would at least _try_ to guess right.”

Bertram sighed, and after a thoughtful pause shook his head.

“I give up, Zed.”

“Fine, I suppose you are simply not as good at guessing things as I am." Zadie sighed. "Now I shall guess your favorite painting, Bertram. It is the one with the fruit and flowers on the table, is it not?”

“Yes.” 

“Ah ha!" Zadie exclaimed victoriously. The accuracy of her guess was such that Bertram had confirmed it instantly, so quickly one would almost think he'd not actually given thought to the matter. "I guessed by figuring out which was the least interesting one, you know. Though that one was also wrong, I must inform you.”

“I suppose you will be informing me why imminently?” Bertram cut in. Zadie blinked, tilting her head against the carriage ceiling.

“Of course. You told me I could not criticize the paintings while in the gallery after all.”

Bertram was quiet for a long moment, and then the Alpha gave a deep sigh, putting his folio aside with an air of resignation.

“Go ahead then, Zed. Let’s hear it.”


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ivy is sorely tested at a dinner party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had a few questions about Millicent calling Ivy by her name in public so I wanted to make a note explaining it. Basically as far as everyone else knows "Ivy" is just a nickname for her deadname "Iven"-- using Ivy as a boy's name was uncommon in the 19th century but not unheard of. Everyone in high society turbo-judges Millicent for calling Ivy by this "nickname" in public, but seeing as they are siblings and Millicent is known to be ill mannered no one reads all that much into it. Additionally, in this universe Omega men taking on more "feminine" nicknames and/or titles within their close social circles is fairly popular as a way to signal their dynamic (likewise Alpha women and "masculine" nicknames and/or titles).

"Bugger," Millicent muttered as they stepped into the drawing room, and for once Ivy felt absolutely no pull to scold her sister for her crude language. They had been so delayed in arriving at the dinner party that it appeared everyone else was already in attendance. The crowd was the kind one would expect during the Season rather than months before, far larger than at the last four events they'd attended. Pre-Season events were supposed to be small and tepid and full of Betas, so this was what Ivy had expected. Instead she found herself the target of some rather intense stares as she looked over what felt like a veritable wall of Alphas. There would be an interval of mere seconds during and after their introduction in which it would be incredibly gouache for someone to approach them-- and thus, in which they could form a plan of action through frantic whispers under the drone of the Beta butler's announcement of their presence. 

"I can't see the cluster at all, where is it?" Millicent hissed under her breath, a panicked tone to her voice.

"How could I know if you don't? You're taller than I," Ivy replied behind a stiff smile.

"I thought you might be able to _sense_ them or something. You know what they say about your dynamic's intuition."

"We're Omegas not _starlings_ ," she protested, but none the less scanned the room in an attempt to sort out where they might be. "There's a partition there separating off a portion of the room, the cluster could be behind it."

"Behind the sea of Alphas looking at you like sharks look at a wounded seal, you mean?" Millicent asked, her grip tightening on Ivy's arm. "Just so we’re straight, you’re not leaving my side this evening no matter how rude I must be about it. They’ll have to excise me with a scalpel. Like a tumor."

"You'll hear no protest from me," Ivy managed as the butler finished their introduction. She exhaled and prepared to step forward into the room, only to be halted by a bewailing voice fit for a melodrama.

"Mr. Farrow!" Lord Westhull cried from his location across the drawing room. She turned to find the Alpha crossing the floor towards her, the other guests making way with haste. 

“Mr. Farrow," Lord Westhull breathed again when he came near, as if the name were a prayer, bowing deeply and then reaching out his hand. Ivy felt her cheeks heat, but she could hardly deny his unspoken request without seeming cold, so she delicately placed her gloved hand upon his and allowed him to kiss it. The contact lingered. When he at last released her hand Ivy could make out a slight wet spot where his lips had rested upon the kidskin, and had to concentrate very firmly to avoid instinctively rubbing the dampness away on the side of her trousers.

“Lord Westhull," Ivy replied, "I hope that you've had a merry holidays.”

At this Lord Westhull fell to his knees-- this trend of Alphas getting upon their knees before her was quite flustering-- and his eyes shone as if with tears.

“I was bereft, Mr. Farrow, _bereft_ ,” he whispered.

“Oh,” said Ivy, not entirely sure how to respond to that. “I am sorry to hear that.”

He took hold of her hands where they had been resting at her sides, staring into her eyes with an intensity which was a bit frightening. “Losing your presence, after having basked in it so long, was like losing the favor of the sun. The very forces that gave me life were sucked like marrow from my bones and I was left wilting, a husk, a _shadow_ of my former self. I was as an orange plucked from my born tree, removed from the warmth of a hot house and taken into the cruel chill of winter. I died, Mr. Farrow. I died every day, and it is only in this moment that I can begin to recall the taste of life.”

Ivy had even less of an idea how to respond to this. Her nascent attempt to formulate a reply was cut off abruptly by the sound of a booming laugh. Shocked, she looked up and around the room. She could not see Ms. Everleigh in the crowd, yet she was almost certain she’d heard her voice. Was she going mad? Could the Alpha be somewhere nearby? 

Ivy realized she was staring over Lord Westhull’s head, and that a lapse of silence had fallen. She scrambled to recall whatever it was the Alpha had been waxing poetic about.

“I do like oranges,” she blurted in her panic, and immediately felt absolutely asinine. But Lord Westhull was in no way set aback by the inanity of her response. Rather he laughed like she had said the cleverest thing in the world.

"Say, Lord Westhull, would you be willing to escort Ivy to the cluster?” Millicent asked pointedly. Lord Westhull did not appear to have heard her.

“I would very much appreciate an escort towards the cluster, Lord Westhull,” Ivy said, grateful to her sister for the idea. Such a service might save her from additional ambushes of a more malevolent sort.

“Of course, Mr. Farrow,” he said, his scent thick with his passion, his eyes nearly boring into her own. “I shall ensure that nothing shall impede your way. Not the deepest lake nor the girthiest tree, not walls of stone or rivers of fire. Not a thousand Alphas.” He rose from his knees with the air of a noble knight, hand clutched to his bosom. “No favor you might ask of me is too excessive for the measure of my love. I would steal the secret of fire from the gods themselves, and so accept the fate of Prometheus, should you ask me to.” 

There was rather a lot in that declaration to process, including the rather bizarre imagery of Lord Westhull making sultry eyes at her while being eaten by eagles on a mountain, so Ivy simply nodded. Or she assumed she must have nodded, for Lord Westhull was now guiding her across the room with a confidence which implied her given agreement. 

The Omegas, as she’d deduced, were largely gathered on the other side of the partition. And so, to her mixed rush of relief and dismay, was Ms. Everleigh.

The Alpha looked terribly dapper in her black dinner suit, the shining satin of her lapel like the flank of a panther moving in the darkness of the night. She was as handsome as ever, in fact if Ivy were to completely abandon her good sense she might imagine that Ms. Everleigh became somehow _more_ handsome each time she saw her, and her dress as refined as any Alpha Lord's. Her cravat was tied neat as the pin it was fixed with and her hair slicked back with macassar, but still there was something about her which was unpolished and genuine in a way that no other Alpha could match. And it was clear that Ivy was not the only Omega to find Ms. Everleigh so intriguing, as the Alpha was currently surrounded by a veritable cluster of Omega of all ages and status. Matrons and debutantes, mated women and confirmed spinsters, those she recognized as her cohorts from last season and those left over from seasons before, all flitted around her and vied for her attention and conversation. 

Ivy tore her eyes away from the scene in time to spot Millicent giving her a meaningful look which she steadfastly ignored. Fortunately there was a second cluster to the side, one which was not orbiting around Ms. Everleigh. Even more fortunately, Ivy was able to spy a familiar face within it while Lord Westhull was still at a loss as to how to deliver her to two clusters at once. 

"Ah look, there is Miss Marland," Ivy said, nodding towards the blonde Omega to indicate her to Lord Westhull. 

"Shall I escort you to her side?" the Alpha asked.

"Yes, please, my Lord. I would be ever so grateful."

Miss Marland, spotting her in turn as they approached, moved to the edge of the group.

"Mr. Farrow, I am so pleased to see you here! Come, come," she beckoned her over. Ivy hastened to obey, but as she did so found Lord Westhull did not leave her side, but attempted to step into the cluster himself, earning him an affronted backstep and a buffeting of fanned air from the collective.

"I think that is your cue to return to the other side, Alpha," Millicent noted. Lord Westhull wore an expression suggesting he had just been gutshot.

"I shall be glad to speak with you after the dinner, my Lord," Ivy offered to soften the blow. Lord Westhull's expression turned serious to the point of grimness, but he did release her arm after another second's hesitation.

"Very well. I shall await you as my blood awaits the beating of my heart. I shall await you like burning lungs await sweet breath. Perhaps just as starved men who gorge themselves on wine and fatty meats may die from shock of it, so too might I die from surfeit of your presence after craving it so." He then bowed his way out of the area. It was remarkable the length of floorspace he could navigate backwards and at an angle.

Miss Marland sighed lightly beside Ivy.

"You're a lucky boy, Mr. Farrow," she murmured, watching Lord Westhull's departure. Ivy wished it were possible to politely convey to the other Omega that she’d happily transfer the sum total of Lord Westhull's affections to her for the price of a small but habitable rural cottage. But there was no polite way to say such a thing, and it was an impossible proposition anyways. 

Ivy followed Miss Marland deeper into the cluster, Millicent remaining on the outskirts and keeping a keen eye upon her, and was pleased to see that Miss Culpepper was present as well. Miss Culpepper was, as always, subdued in her affect, but gave a small smile and nod.

"Can you believe _she_ is here!" Miss Marland exclaimed the moment their greeting concluded.

"Who is?" Ivy asked, hoping the Omega was not speaking of who she must surely be speaking of.

“Ms. Everleigh," Miss Marland replied, dashing her hopes to smithereens. Of course Miss Marland, ever the romantic, would be intrigued by Ms. Everleigh's situation. The blonde Omega clasped her hands together, sandwiching her folded fan between them. "Of Lady Evangeline and the newsprint article. Oh tell me you’ve heard about it, Mr. Farrow, it is simply _too_ romantic.” She set her gaze on the Alpha across the room, her eyes sparkling with excitement as she tittered on: "I had heard she was quite handsome, but I hadn’t gotten to see her myself until now. Well, I did meet her at the masquerade, of course, but she was wearing a mask then. She really is quite... _strapping_ , isn’t she though?” Miss Marland flushed a delicate pink, turning her face from Ms. Everleigh to Ivy with a smile. 

Ivy shrugged, the effort of forcing her own smile almost painful.

“Weren't you in terror of that very Alpha just months ago?” Miss Culpepper pointed out with a small frown. “Killed little innocent fluffy animals, you said?”

Miss Marland’s flush deepened, her floral scent turning ever so slightly overripe in embarrassment, before she waved her hand dismissively.

“That was before I knew she was such a distinguished and honorable figure. In, in any case that is precisely why I am so invested in her romance. Mark my words, there’s nothing can reform an Alpha’s ways like true love.” Miss Marland sighed, a sound which tipped from sweet to mournful. “If only I could procure a formal introduction to her. Mother says an introduction at a masquerade means dash all for a dinner party, but I think she just means to spoil my excitement. If I had a proper one she'd have to allow it. Do _you_ know anyone who might do me the favor, Mr. Farrow?"

"Well I…” Could Ivy deny having been introduced to the Alpha? She wished to, selfishly, so that she might avoid befalling victim to the Alpha’s charm and once again making a spangled fool of herself. But it would be all too easy to be caught in such a lie, and she would be a poor friend to tell it. “I could do it, I suppose. I was introduced to her at a gallery showing two weeks past."

"Really?" Miss Marland asked, grinning with delight. "Oh, then you are my ticket in! Miss Culpepper, should you desire an introduction as well?"

"I’d rather avoid the fray, if it is all the same to you,” the other Omega demurred.

"Very well.” Miss Marland turned to Ivy and took her arm-- an excited, sisterly sort of gesture that gave Ivy a modicum of comfort. "You must stick by my side Mr. Farrow, for I simply must have an introduction. I have to ask all about her romance." And there went that modicum of comfort, flung irretrievably into the abyss. This was among the worst things Ivy could imagine enduring within the confines of a dinner party. “She seems to be rather a bold Alpha,” Miss Marland whispered with a conspiring air. “If we approach she may greet us, and we’ll be allowed passage past the others.”

As the girl had predicted Ms. Everleigh was quick to note their approach, looking the both of them over with a surprised but welcoming smile. She paused at Ivy's face, narrowing her eyes.

"Oh, I know you!" she remarked, pointing to Ivy. "Who are you again?"

One of the girls orbiting the Alpha gave a little gasp, presumably at Ms. Everleigh's lack of decorum.

"Mr. Farrow," Ivy reintroduced herself, stamping down the embarrassment threatening to choke her voice. "We were introduced at the gallery."

"Oh," Ms Everleigh replied and then, frowning, took a half step back. "I am sorry, but I must keep my distance from you, lest your suitors become concerned." Ivy thought that a wise plan. Painful, yes, but for the best. She might even have snatched this as an opportunity to scurry away, but she still had a duty to Miss Marland to fulfill. 

"You need not worry, Alpha. I approached only in hopes to introduce you to my," Ivy stumbled over the word 'friend,’ which seemed ever so presumptuous, "acquaintance. M-" 

"A _pleasure_ to see you again, Ms. Everleigh," Miss Marland gushed, her excitement boiling over before Ivy could even get into the introduction itself. "I attended your ball you know, Alpha, and I am ever so intrigued by your situation. To fall in love with a stranger at a masquerade and to scour all of England for her, such a _wonderful tale_! I have been simply _dying_ to hear the details."

"Many people have been saying as much to me," Ms. Everleigh nodded, "but I must tell you I am meant to keep most of the details secret, so that they are not used to trick me."

"Have you encountered imposters, then?" Miss Marland asked, a tad too enthused about the prospect.

"Not yet, but my brother thinks it inevitable. I'm quite sure I would see through any such deception, however, so it matters not if it should be tried," Ms. Everleigh declared with an unshakable confidence that made the other Omegas clustered around her coo sentimentally and Ivy feel rather like she'd like to toss a glass full of lemonade at the Alpha's face.

Miss Marland nodded, Ms. Everleigh's words no doubt seeming perfectly sensible to her. She pressed her hand to her bosom, her scent and voice blossoming in earnest. "You will know in your heart, surely, when you have met her and when you haven't." 

"Of course." Ms. Everleigh nodded in turn, flashing a crooked smile which lit her eyes like emeralds and, despite everything, still made Ivy’s traitorous heart flutter. How long had they all been standing here, Ivy wondered. Surely it must be past time to be called to dinner. She could not tolerate this conversation in tranquility and she could not make the faux pas of getting agitated for a reason she could scarcely explain.

"Please, excuse me," Ivy blurted as it became increasingly clear she would have to create her own segue out of this conversation, "but I believe I shall return to the other cluster. I pray you will forgive me, but as it seems I am quite extraneous to the conversation..."

"Oh, Mr. Farrow, I didn't mean to exclude you!” Miss Marland remarked, patting her arm. “Please, tell and inform us of what _you_ think of the matter." 

Ivy would have been deeply touched by Miss Marland’s determination to include her in conversation if it were not such a terrible thing to be included in on this singular conversation.

"I do not, I do not have anything to contribute," she stammered. "Hence my silence. Further, I should feel terribly if Ms. Everleigh's concerns about perturbing my suitors should be realized."

"Oh pah!" Miss Marland exclaimed, waving her hand to dismiss Ivy's concerns, then saying aside to Ms. Everleigh: "Mr. Farrow's suitors become _perturbed_ if he looks at a _vase_ for too long." She returned her attention to Ivy, but as she made to speak the chime of the dinner bell sounded, graciously saving Ivy from further efforts towards her inclusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ivy is internally like "Can any Alpha just talk normally to me? Can they just use normal words, like words a human being uses to talk to another human being, words without menacing horny overtones or extravagant melodrama. Please I am begging you." and Zadie comes up and she's like "NO NOT LIKE THAT"


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alphas are generally insufferable.

Ivy typically found herself placed towards the middle of the table at dinner parties-- generally near enough to her suitors that they could observe her, but not close enough to allow for conversation between them. She was uncertain if this was a result of obedience to the rules of seating arrangements or desire to avoid the controversy that might come from appearing to favor a particular suitor, but she had few complaints either way. It was at times difficult for her to eat with the strong scent of Alphas nearby, and she often needed all of her wits about her just to recall which fork or spoon she was meant to use for a particular dish. 

This dinner proved an aberration in that she found herself seated besides Lt. Wiskam. Perhaps they were considered similar in rank, or the ratio of genders and dynamics had necessitated such placement. Perhaps the host believed Ivy so unlikely to accept Lt. Wiskam’s suit that it was not considered favoritism to position him as such. All things considered, if she was destined to have an Alpha dining partner tonight she was lucky to have it be Lt. Wiskam-- his scent being much less pungent than younger Alphas and his company preferable to that of certain others seated nearby. Lord Flaxby was dining not far from her, and across from him was Lord Thropshire. In fairness to Lord Thropshire, he had always been civil to Ivy. He had even numbered among her considered prospects for some time, until she’d witnessed the cruel disdain with which he treated Omegas he did _not_ have an interest in. Ivy was not so foolish as to think herself so beguiling that she need never fear losing an Alpha's interest.

Ms. Everleigh was quite distant from her, sitting to the opposite side as Lords Flaxby and Thropshire. Ivy told herself she should regard this as a relief, despite a stirring of disappointment that arose with the realization that she could have little hope of overhearing her conversation.

“You know, Mr. Farrow-” Ivy jolted, having lost herself once more to gazing at Ms. Everleigh, and turned to Lt. Wiskam. The older Alpha had leaned closer to her, a sly smile upon his lips. “I have been thinking about your reply ever since I received it.” Ivy attempted to keep the confusion from her scent. Whatever reply could he be referring to? She hadn’t written a letter which was actually meant to be sent in months. “I was worried you might miss my letter hidden among the roses.” Oh, _that_ letter. Goodness, Ivy barely remembered that. Had Lt. Wiskam really been thinking of it since July?

“You’re quite coy,” the Alpha continued, and then, leaning in further so he might whisper his next words: “Do not be offended, for I do think I like that in you. I may be an older fellow, but I like a bit of playfulness in a boy.”

"Forgive my hesitance,” Ivy whispered in reply, “but is not the discussion of private correspondence an activity which is deemed inappropriate to a rather public venue?"

"Ah, you mean to suggest we wait until we can procure a more private climate for such discourse?" he asked, rather misreading the hint she’d meant to give. 

_Bother_ , she thought.

"I must confess, Alpha, that I am considerably more interested in hearing of your," Ivy searched her memories of Lt. Wiskam, which had grown rather dusty over months of disuse, "horse breeding enterprise." 

“Are you truly?” Lt. Wiskam asked, his expression a mixture of surprise and disbelief. “I fear such talk would bore you.” Ivy had come to be most familiar with this phrase, one which she suspected Alphas used when they were certain a subject would go over her head.

“I should like to know more about what endeavors are important to you, and how you spend your time, even if I cannot fully understand some aspects,” she assured.

This proved sufficient prompting to elicit an eloquy from Lt. Wiskam, and Ivy attended to his words as best she could, though she soon realized that the Alpha had been entirely justified in characterizing the subject as boring. 

Ivy told herself that the dull content of this lecture was the reason her ears so keenly pricked when she heard someone a few seats behind Lt. Wiskham mentioning Ms. Everleigh's name. 

“Is that her then?” a Beta gentleman she recognized as a Mr. Sterling asked, craning his head to look Ms. Everleigh over. “Land, but she _does_ look like she labors for her living,” he observed with a slight cringe of disapproval which rumpled his wax soaked moustaches. “I’d assumed the bit about her playing gamekeeper was some feint by Lord Weldwick, a financial scheme mayhaps, but perhaps there is a truth to it.”

“I dare say I entirely believe it,” Lord Flaxby said. “The late Earl used to drive my father to apoplexy by bringing her along with him on the hunts we hosted at our country holdings-- apparently that was the former Weldwick’s favored method of enraging his rivals.”

“She does seem the sort of lout to ruin a hunt with her bumbling,” Mr. Sterling mused, hands resting on his lapels. Lord Flaxby chuckled and shook his head.

“Oh, far from it. It’s perhaps the one thing at which she shows undeniable aptitude. She’s a wicked shot. Seen her bring down a brace of grouse just snapping at the sound of wings. That was the entire point-- the humiliation of watching a girl barely out of her first rut outshoot you, your sons, and your own gamekeeper on your own lands. Why else would the man who owns Cardenfirth go somewhere else for his sport?”

A strange sort of warmth came with the thought of Ms. Everleigh outperforming the other Alpha Lords, a sense of satisfaction or perhaps even vindication which Ivy carefully avoided examining. She was afraid it might prove too closely aligned with that feeling that Omega in novels spoke of when _their_ Alpha bested a rival. 

“Cardenfirth, that’s right… ” Lord Thropshire muttered, having turned to appraise Ms. Everleigh himself. The Alpha put his finger to his chin, his eyebrows furrowing as he contemplated her anew. “I thought I might have met her before… If my memory serves, she _was_ the Alpha that guided me on the stalk there last year. It never occurred to me that she might be the Earl’s sister— she never bid I call her anything besides Keeper and- Blazes!” he exclaimed, brows shooting upwards in almost alarmed recognition. “I _tipped_ her! Like a common valet! And she _took_ it!”

Yet more genuine warmth bled into Ivy's heart at these remarks. Yes, that did sound like the sort of Alpha Ms. Everleigh must be, to be both the daughter of an Earl and Dame Robin Hood of the ballroom. 

“Do you think she gets a say in who can lease the grounds?” Mr. Sterling asked, glancing over his shoulder before returning his attention to the two Alphas. “They say you can shoot all Season at Cardenfirth," he continued, "every bird in her Majesty's dominion and the best stag south of Scotland. I've heard it told they've even spotted boar there." 

_And I will never see it,_ Ivy thought, and this truth arrived with a force that doused the facile enjoyment she'd been deriving from her eavesdropping. The closest she had gotten, and likely would ever get, to appreciating such a magnificent place was walking in wane moonlight on a gravel pathway. If ever she should be able to visit again it would be in guise as some Alpha's husband, who would be kept from such wilderness, and could hope at best only to be permitted to stroll in the manicured garden. She felt a great sorrow coming over her, and did her best to banish any hint of it from her scent or expression. She would not be able to explain to Lt. Wiskam why she had suddenly become bereft in the midst of his explanation of hay expenditures.

"It's grand alright, but there hasn't been boar in England since the Tudors," Lord Thropshire scoffed.

"Well, that's how I've heard it told," Mr. Sterling muttered, scratching the side of his face absently. “Boar or no boar, I know the hunting has to be good, that's where Weldwick gets all his money from, they say.”

“He’d have a great deal more if he’d just sell the lumber rights,” Lord Thropshire observed.

"Ah,” Lord Flaxby smirked, “but all that wealth couldn’t buy the bootlicking that the prizest hunting land in the southern half of Britannia can. How else is the man to ensure that the only remarks made of the Weldwicks in clubs are that Lord Weldwick is _ever_ so stately, and Lady Weldwick arrestingly _beautiful_." 

The men gave a smattering of rough chuckles at this statement, in tones that Ivy expected meant they did not, in fact, think Lady Weldwick to be beautiful. Though Ivy knew nothing about Lady Weldwick herself, she did not think it at all decent to bring a lady's appearance to attention just to deride it. 

"Not to mention," Flaxby added, "where else is he going to keep his lummox of a sister penned?"

Ivy decided in that moment that her distaste for Lord Flaxby was in fact entirely justified. Her disinclination towards him, and towards Lord Thropshire, was proving more and more founded with each remark they made.

“The Omegas certainly don't seem to mind her unpenning," Mr. Sterling observed.

"Yes, they do so clamour for every crumb of melodrama, don't they?" Lord Thropshire noted. "Incessant gossipers, they so often prove themselves to be."

Ivy thought to herself that there did not seem to be much difference at all between the Alphas' conversation and the gossip they derided. Which was something terribly judgemental of her to think, but she felt that perhaps she might be permitted some leeway to pass judgement on those who so easily passed it on others. 

"I dare say, my Lord, that I am not at all certain that _gossip_ is at the core of their interest," the Beta ventured, raising a brow. "They have, after all, felt quite disfavored by the Alpha Lords this past season."

"I dare say, Mr. Sterling, that you don't know Omegas," Lord Thropshire bit back. "If there is any element of attraction, it is of a purely vapid sort. Mark my words, in a few weeks something even more frivolous will occur and drag their attention away.” 

"Here here. It is most unfair to cast the Omegan craving for Alpha attention as a result of neglect," Lord Flaxby added. "After all, Mr. Farrow has been nothing if not _doted_ upon by Alphas, and he's just as enchanted by Ms. Everleigh and her fairytale romance as the other little ones."

The men made to look inconspicuously towards her at this remark, and Ivy quickly turned her eyes back to Lt. Wiskam and hoped they had not noticed her listening in on their discourse. 

The rest of the dinner was a lengthy affair, as always seemed to be the case. Ivy found herself without much appetite, and so in this instance was perfectly well suited by the tiny portions she was served of each dish. She was glad when dinner service concluded, and doubly glad that in its aftermath she could expect at least some portion of time in which to socialize away from Alphas. She was guided to the drawing room to take after-dinner tea with the Omegas and the Beta women, and made immediately to join the tightly packed cluster.

“Pardon me," she said, trying to maneuver around three chattering soon-to-be debutantes in order to penetrate the outskirts of the crowd. The trio turned and quite unsubtly looked her over, making her feel terribly self aware.

“You're Iven Farrow,” one of the girls remarked, eyes wide.

“Yes,” Ivy confirmed, and gave a small bow. By the time she'd risen from it the Omega had turned around and was whispering to her compatriots, who were badly pretending not to stare at her. She saw one of their mouths shape the words “his mother” and turned herself away. Perhaps she should sit to the side instead.

“Mr. Farrow!” a smooth, pretty voice called out before she could drift further away. Ivy sought out it's source to find Lady Flora lifting her hand slightly from the center of the cluster. “Why, I believe that I have not seen you since last July. Please, do come join us. Sweetings, if you could make way for the little dear, I’d ever so appreciate it.”

Ivy’s shoulders dropped in relief. Lady Flora was without doubt the most well liked Omega of their debut year. Some social formula beyond Ivy’s ken-- no doubt involving the combination of her pedigree, her beauty, and her effortlessly amicable manner-- allotted her sufficient social aegis to indulge in things like associating with Ivy without herself being tarnished. Her tacit endorsements had shielded Ivy from indignities over the past Season, so Ivy owed much to her. 

“This has been such a charming dinner party has it not been, Mr. Farrow?” Lady Flora prompted once Ivy had arrived at her side. “Miss Hookfinch and I were just remarking it so.” The Omega gestured here to her conversational partner, who was fanning herself rapidly and neither appeared nor smelled nearly so pleased with Ivy’s company.

“Yes,” Ivy agreed, and then searched for something to remark upon that distinguished this dinner party from a dozen others she’d attended, besides the presence of an Alpha she was at this moment refusing to acknowledge. “There are many guests whom I was not expecting to see again this early in the year,” she settled with.

“The House of Lords being in session, yet the Season’s opening more than a month away, one would expect such an event to skew sharply towards Alphas. You must have expected to be the sole Omega among the Lords,” Miss Hookfinch remarked, her dark pincurls bobbing gayly in the breeze of her fan. “You might have been, you know, had our debut Season proved more successful. If we'd had the opportunity to secure engagements for ourselves I am certain it would not have been necessary for so many of us to cut short our holidays and return to London early.” Miss Hookfinch smiled, but the expression was dry and thin upon her face and utterly absent from her eyes. “I do sincerely hope you are not awaiting apologies from us girls for the ruination of your fun, Mr. Farrow, as this situation was certainly not of _our_ making.”

“I think that perhaps you misunderstand me, Miss Hookfinch,” Ivy replied, though her words came out with a quaver which rather undid any dignity they might otherwise have held. “I welcome the presence of other Omegas. If I should find myself among hundreds of Omegas and only one or two Alphas, I should be entirely comfortable.” 

Miss Hookfinch’s expression went sour. The sting of her displeased scent was causing a ripple of unease through the cluster. Ivy crossed her arms in front of her in a nervous, self protective gesture and looked away from the other Omega. 

“ _Silly_ of me to imagine any girl could pose competition to you,” Miss Hookfinch bit out.

“I do not think of you as my competition-” 

“Of _course_ you do not. Please Mr. Farrow, _forgive_ my presumption.” Miss Hookfinch snapped her fan closed and abruptly turned about face, stalking out of the cluster. Two girls who’d been standing close to her followed, casting tentative looks at the edge of the cluster before breaking away. Ivy could not say if they were friends to Miss Hookfinch or if their instincts merely demanded of them to attend to an upset Omega who’d left the safety of the group. Ivy felt the attention of the cluster shift from Miss Hookfinch’s departing form to her as if it were a physical weight set over her body. She felt trapped by it, wanting to explain herself but incapable of operating her mouth. Frozen in place, her eyes cast to the floor, it took all her will to manage to keep the embarrassment from her scent. 

“Forgive her, Mr. Farrow. She feels her pride wounded,” Lady Flora spoke gently, moving closer and placing her hand to the small of her back before whispering: “She was quite set upon an Alpha who has coarsely rejected her in favor of you.”

“I do not mind,” Ivy lied, because though she did mind, it was impolite to say as much. And because, though their situations differed quite a bit in the close details, Ivy could not help but imagine she knew quite how Miss Hookfinch felt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know that scene in George of the Jungle where he’s running with horses in a sexy billowy shirt and all the women are staring at him and some trust fund ghoul dudes who are watching this are like “Man, what is it with women and **horses**?” That’s Zadie being ogled by all the Omegas in the room while the dude Alphas are just like “Man, what is it with Omegas and **gossiping**?”


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ivy pines most miserably, and Millicent double-checks something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song of this chapter is [She](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gEdZFhCEjWI) by dodie.

Weighing the unconscionable rudeness of reneging upon already established social commitments against the terrorizing prospect of being forced to face the reality of Ms. Everleigh’s presence therein was a task that had kept Ivy up more nights than not in the wake of the most trying dinner party of her life. In the end she found that she could not generate a sufficient excuse to formally cancel her attendance, nor sufficient courage to simply fail to arrive at the events. She did contemplate in depth, however, the prospect of demuring from every _future_ invitation she received. At least until she was certain that Ms. Everleigh had given up her quest and returned to her estate.

She might have begged her heat-- as the etiquette books for social climbing Omegas advised, claimed to be 'strictly unavailable for events at that particular time'-- but this would only work for a week at most. Ivy found the prospect of lying about her heat particularly embarrassing, especially given there was the possibility of her being caught out in said lie. What should she do if someone were to spy her through a window and witness her quite clearly in possession of her senses? It would be absolutely silly of her to spend a week in bed simply to give herself an alibi for avoiding a few gatherings. She considered too the prospect of claiming prior engagements, but there were still a quite limited number of London events on the calendar and it was by now well known that she lacked the funds to travel far outside the city. Questions might be raised as to what other events she possibly could have scheduled, and should she specify one her excuse would be rendered an obvious lie once she was not seen there. 

Ivy thought back to the three events she’d attended between the gallery and the dinner party, none of which had included Ms. Everleigh among the guests. She’d thought that the greatest torture imaginable at the time, to perpetually attend gatherings without again seeing Ms. Everleigh. To hear only stray gossip about the Alpha, or even nothing at all, yet be consumed with thoughts of where she was, what she was doing, whom she was speaking to, whether or not Ivy would ever see her again. She’d been a right fool, she realized soon enough, for this had been a boon compared to the purgatory of attending events at which the Alpha was vibrantly, _bombastically_ present.

Ivy found it was simply impossible for her to ignore Ms. Everleigh’s presence at an event. If not because her distinctively tall and broad frame stood out even amongst Alphas, then because her boisterous manner served as a constant reminder of her existence. Ivy felt acutely aware of every instance in which the Alpha laughed-- the sound of her voice seemed to cut across crowds and idle chatter like an arrow through the sky, impeccably aimed to wound her. Ivy was _painfully_ aware of Ms. Everleigh, who in contrast seemed utterly indifferent to Ivy's very existence. 

But here Ivy lied to herself, for the Alpha was worse than indifferent, she was _repelled_. It was not as if she was so cruel as to blatantly cut her dead, but she clearly seemed only to notice Ivy in order to direct herself away from her. 

And with good reason-- as the Alpha's brother had apparently told her, and Miss Marland confirmed, most of Ivy's suitors were quite territorial. It would be barborous for Ivy to fix Ms. Everleigh with the burden of being postured at by jealous suitors, something sure to happen should the Omega continue pressing for entry into her company. And what if Ms. Everleigh took notice of Ivy's fixation and thought it necessary to give her another set down? The exchange in the gallery had been agonizing enough. Only thinking of being dismissed by Ms. Everleigh again, goodness forbid in front of the other Omegas or more of her suitors, made the Omega wish to shrivel up to the size of a mouse and hide under a teacup. 

But understanding the wisdom of remaining separated rom Ms. Everleigh did not change the pain that came with knowing she was the only member of her dynamic receiving so cool a treatment from the Alpha. The other Omegas flocked to Ms. Everleigh like butterflies to nectar, their gauzy pastel gown making fair approximations of fluttering wings. And unto them the Alpha was as generous a supplier as the sunflower, which rich in pollen stood above all and basked unashamed in the sunlight. They received no order to keep their distances, no reproach reminding them that she had promised her bond to another. 

Certainly the other Omegas well knew she was spoken for, but just because something was unobtainable did not mean one could not entertain the _fantasy_ of it. Ms. Everleigh, with her poet’s mouth and easy smile and obvious thew, was quite the fantasy to entertain. And if any of them suspected what Ivy herself knew: that Ms. Everleigh might- that she _would_ in time be forced to give up on Evangeline, then of course they would seek to make their charm apparent to her now. When the day at last came that the Alpha was forced to abandon her quest, the same Omegas that tonight flocked to her with encouragement would then be more than happy to comfort her. And who could blame them? Ivy certainly could not.

As Lord Thomas turned her she caught again a glimpse of the Alpha and her cluster of admirers. It struck her then how short-sighted it had been for Lord Flaxby and Lord Thropshire to so casually dismiss her powers of attraction-- the only sight in the room more ostentatious that Ms. Everleigh herself was the attention she gathered with her mere presence.

Ivy felt her brows furrow and the edges of her mouth turn down as the burn of her despair and anger first flickered then flared in her heart, like a hearth fed with a glass of spirits.

Oh, but the Alpha simply _had_ to be handsome, did she not? She could not have done Ivy the favor of being plain, or even ugly? If this had been the case Ivy might have more opportunities to speak to her, if nothing else. But no. She was stunningly beautiful and terribly charming and everything lightness and gaiety and every Omega in the room could see it. Every Omega in the room wished to have her eyes alight upon them and make her laugh and feel the heat radiating from her well muscled form. There was a childish part of Ivy which felt she could almost stomp her feet and ball her fists and declare that it was _not fair._ That _she_ had seen her _first_. Ivy had seen Ms. Everleigh first, and she hadn’t even known she was gorgeous or wealthy or any of that, and dash it all, shouldn’t that count for _something_? 

If this was a fairy story, it would count for something.

“You _are_ peevish tonight, aren’t you little one?” Lord Thomas observed. His tone was amused rather than chiding, the novelty of seeing her in such a state of vexation evidently outweighing any offense he might take at the possibility of being to blamed for it. Ivy pressed her mouth into a tight line. She’d managed to present herself as passably cheerfully to the previous Alphas she’d danced with, but clearly she had reached the limit of her composure tonight. She thought of what she might say to explain her low mood. 

“My apologies my Lord,” she began, “I have something of a head-ache.” It was not a false statement after all. Dancing with several Alphas tended to wear on her even at the best of times, if only due to the potency of their mingled scents.

“Ah. Perhaps your head would feel better if I’d let you remain where I found you: in the tender embrace of Lord Westhull’s serenading. Tell me Omega, do you wish that I had left you at the mercy of his verse rather than claim my slot upon your dance card?" Lord Thomas teased, surely knowing she wished no such thing.

“I am sure that Lord Westhull will find another opportunity to share his sentiments,” she responded, unable to keep the touch of grimness from her tone which made it clear she did not relish this certainty.

“The man is a veritable fount of sonnets,” Lord Thomas agreed. “Speaking of, how many Valentines did he send you?”

“My Lord-” she began to protest.

“Come now, be a good sport Mr. Farrow,” he cajoled her. “I’ve made a gentleman’s bet of it and I’m keen to settle it.”

Ivy had in truth received a great deal of sweetheart Valentines, to the point of needing Millicent’s assistance to sort through them all, but most of them had more or less blended together in her mind. The card that came clearest to her mind was a post-card which she’d not even read. Millicent had found it first, and at her sound of outrage Ivy's attention had flashed to the card just quickly enough to glimpse a caricature of an Omega boy, dressed in an excess of frills and frippery and clasping a number of ribbons to which were leashed several slavering Alpha. Then Millicent had ripped the image in half, then quarters, then continued until all that remained was confetti. In comparison to this, her notion of how many cards Lord Westhull had sent her was dulled. Ivy could hardly say for sure, but she could guess, so she sighed and at last acquiesced to Lord Thomas’ prodding. “Seven, I believe.”

“Dash it, I’d guessed ten,” he grumbled. “Ah well.” Then, as a sort of afterthought, he continued: “I trust you received mine as well?”

“I did, my Lord. It was quite charming, and I thank you for your thoughtfulness.” 

Lord Thomas’ Valentine, as Ivy best recalled, had depicted a bouquet in a vase-- the flowers rendered in intricate silk ribbon embroidery, the shape of the ornate container in which they rested embossed outwards and gilded in gold and silver. The image was framed with whorls of delicate lace and faceted glass gems. Millicent had griped that it probably cost what she made in a month. But it had also been entirely impersonal, without any note or even the mark of Lord Thomas’ signature-- they’d only known the sender by the envelope. This was much the trouble Ivy had with Lord Thomas as a suitor: in many ways he did not seem at all serious in his bid for her hand. He ran rather hot and cold with his gestures of courtship, attentive one week and the next treating her existence as an afterthought. If not for this vacillating behavior she might have already selected him as her foremost suitor. If not for her own indecision, she might already be wed to him. She might never have met Ms. Everleigh. 

The thought brought up a strange mixture of emotions in her, none of them pleasant, which hung in her mind as Lord Thomas returned her to Millicent’s side and left with a brisk good-bye.

“Who do you have on your card next?" Millicent asked Ivy once the Lord had departed. The Beta was slumped slightly in her chair, legs stretched out in front of her, holding a glass with a thin pool of punch dregs gathered at the bottom. "Generally by this point the next Alpha is circling me like a vulture awaiting your return.”

"Sit up properly and I'll tell you," Ivy remonstrated, and did not take out her dance card until Millicent worked herself back into an acceptable posture, grumbling the whole time. “Mr. Espite,” Ivy read once her sister was properly arranged. She tilted her head in confusion. “I don't believe I know who that is.”

“I do!” Millicent remarked cheerfully. “It’s the false name I put on your dance card to give you a break from whirling around in the stench of Alpha.”

“Millicent...” Ivy sighed, “I can manage my own dance card, you know.” She was trying for chastisement in her tone, but found herself falling well short, perhaps because she could not suppress her relief at having such a reprieve. Millicent grunted, looking into her cup and then laying it aside upon the floor.

There was a moment of quietude before the Beta spoke again.

“Do you think they even hear what she's saying?” she asked, lifting her chin to indicate the group of Omegas conversing with Ms. Everleigh across the room. Ivy furrowed her brow in confusion at the odd question.

"Why wouldn't they? She doesn't mumble," she pointed out. Quite on the contrary, one could hear her quite clearly, even from several paces away from her circle of admirers.

"But do you think they are truly _listening_? I’ll give that she's distractingly handsome to look at...” Millicent hesitated, crossing and then uncrossing her arms, “but eventually her mate is going to want to do more than _look_ at her. Talk to her, even." 

"What are you getting at Millicent?" Ivy asked.

"I mean to say that, based on what we've been overhearing of her conversational repertoire, I can’t imagine her devotee club would sincerely _enjoy_ her company once the novelty of her good looks wears off.”

“I enjoyed talking to her plenty,” Ivy countered. She felt defensive of Ms. Everleigh, and annoyed at herself for being defensive and annoyed at herself for being annoyed at herself for being defensive. "The first time, at least," she amended, for she had hardly enjoyed their conversation at the gallery or the dinner party.

“You _really_ talked to her, have you?" Millicent asked, her skepticism obvious and only nettling Ivy’s sore mood further. "And you _listened_ to what she said in response? You didn't just giggle and admire her biceps the whole time?”

“Is it so hard for you to believe we Omega aren’t purely shallow creatures?" she asked rather tartly. "That we have the capacity to care about the spirit of an Alpha, as well as their handsomeness?”

“That is my very point, though,” Millicent pressed. “If an Omega cared about the _spirit_ of an Alpha, it should be abundantly clear to her that, in addition to being a ridiculously becoming, Ms. Everleigh is also a strutting cockalorum who's denser than last year’s fruitcake."

Ivy frowned and turned her attention to her lap, fiddling with the cuffs of her gloves and thinking bitterly to herself that Millicent did not at all understand. Ivy _wished_ that she could have such confidence as Ms. Everleigh displayed, that she could be so secure in her own worth as to be insensate to attempts to deride her. She wished she didn’t flinch at every snide comment and bleed at every barb. She wished she had accomplishments and skills to be proud _of_. What could she even have to feel muchly about? That Alphas found her pretty and agreeable? She could not imagine claiming more than this.

"I'm just saying," Millicent continued in reply to Ivy’s sullen silence, "sometimes first impressions don't hold up. I know you're still pretending not to be at all interested in her, but the fact is you may well have made a lucky escape there. She may be comely, but I doubt she'd be able to appreciate you."

Again Ivy found her tongue tangled by a mixture of irritation: at Millicent, at Ms. Everleigh, but most of all at herself. For while Ivy had a few brief times felt a burning sort of resentment towards Ms. Everleigh that tempted her to join in on deriding the Alpha, she knew it was for her own pettiness and not because Ms. Everleigh had behaved in any truly abhorrent way. She almost wished Ms. Everleigh _had_ been cruel in her rejection, for then she might conjure up some offense on her own behalf, some excuse to enjoy hearing her cut down. But she'd clearly endeavored to be as kind and reassuring as she could at the gallery. 

It occurred to Ivy then that she'd been lying when she had told herself that the Alpha couldn't see her as she _truly_ was.

Ms. Everleigh saw Ivy for exactly what she was: a foolish, fanciful, commonplace Omega, infatuated with something she couldn't have. Something that wasn't hers to claim. To Ivy, Ms. Everleigh was extraordinary, but to Ms. Everleigh, Ivy was nothing of the sort. In that way, the Alpha really did appreciate her like no other-- she’d judged her value more accurately than any of her other suitors.

"You don't understand," Ivy said, feeling suddenly very tired. “Perhaps she does not seem it to you, but Ms. Everleigh is wonderful. Any Omega should be honored to be given the title of her mate. And… and she deserves an Omega worthy of her.”

 _Not me_ , remained unspoken but no less audible in the air between Ivy and her sister.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anon hate? In _my_ 19th century? [ It’s more likely than you think](https://www.collectorsweekly.com/articles/happy-valentines-day-i-hate-you/).


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Zadie is tossed a lifeline via primogenitous meddling.

Zadie had first glimpsed this greenhouse several days ago through a coach window. The structure was of fair size, certainly bigger than most of the greenhouses the Alpha had yet spotted while in London, and seemed to be flourishing well. She’d spotted it twice more since the first, but each time only fleetingly. Being in Bertram’s coach at these times, she was thus at the mercy of his schedules of Socializing, which apparently required them to be driven all over London. Still, these three brief impressions were sufficient for Zadie to take note of the location and layout of the glass structure as well as the grand house to which it was attached. So she had become rather excited when, in the course of tonight’s outing, she’d realized this house would be the latest stop in the parade of parties Bertram had been pressing her to attend. At long last she and her brother had been invited somewhere that Zadie might actually wish to visit.

The glasshouse proved to be as stimulating as she’d hoped, if a bit overly manicured for Zadie’s taste. The specimens housed in separate beds and yet smaller glass cases hardly hid the hand of humanity in shaping this territory, but Zadie could understand that this was necessary when one did not have much space in which to grow things. The plants collected in the room needed different sorts of soils and different watering schedules, and in general it helped ensure protection from frost to keep the roots out of the ground. She quickly discovered a portion of the glasshouse which had been made up to look more naturalistic-- at least in the sense of a public park. It featured a looping gravel pathway that ran beside a tiny artifice pond surrounded by moneywort. Zadie stood at the edge of the path opposite the water feature, scrutinizing her environment. 

Zadie supposed that she had not been, strictly speaking, invited into the greenhouse _itself_. But she’d seen enough of the location during her three roadside glimpses to intuit a precise map of the buildings and their probable floorplan in her mind, and the walk from the coach to the vestibule and from there to the drawing room was sufficient to confirm her mental model. From there it was a simple matter to slip from the drawing room and walk directly to the greenhouse. So perhaps no one had specifically _allowed_ her into it, but no one had specifically _forbidden_ her either. 

Zadie reasoned that she simply needed a moment by herself, a few lungfuls of fresh air. Fresh air, as she’d recalled from her own brief season, was one commodity which could not be imported into the capital for even the most exorbitant price. Even on the clearest of days Zadie had discovered that, when one opened a window or stepped out onto a balcony and inhaled deeply, one found the air having a sort of greasy taste which coated the sinuses. On bad days, the grime and smoke was so thick that Zadie imagined one could practically chew it like tobacco. There were by far not enough plants in London to freshen the air, this much was clear to Zadie. She had to take in nature wherever it presented itself. 

Zadie noted a small potted azalea shrub that had been put near the path. It did not look correct, and she squatted to assess it. Close inspection revealed that, though the azalea shrub had evidently been watered and fed enough that buds had formed, its leaves were overly small and had a yellow tinge. Such aberrations forecast petals that would unfurl faded and limp. Zadie moved aside the azalea’s branches to expose the soil in it's pot, digging into the surface and pinching a clump of dirt, which she sniffed and then popped into her mouth. It had no tang to it, but a slight chalkiness that clung to her tongue as she rolled it around. As she suspected. She spat the dirt back out, licking the back of her hand and then spitting again to remove the remainder of the taste and texture.

"Oh Lord," a voice sounded from the other side of the decorative pond. Zadie looked up to find a Beta woman standing across from her. Her hair appeared to have gone frizzy in the humidity of the room, suggesting she’d been present some time. Zadie attempted to place her, as her appearance was faintly familiar, but had no luck and so resolved to simply move forward.

"I am not a Lord, actually, I am a lady. Well, I am also not a Lady anymore. When I presented I became a Right Honorable. But only on envelopes," Zadie explained. She understood it to be a confusing matter, especially as some Alphas got to keep the Lady-- though she'd never been very attached to it herself. Lady Zadie was too sing-song for her taste. "What are you doing here, Beta?"

"I am at this very moment asking myself the same question," the woman replied. 

"Are you lost?" Zadie asked. She hoped not, for then Zadie would have to guide her back to her intended location, which would mean leaving the crisp haven of the glasshouse and returning to clattering crowds of people and greasy air.

"Merely second guessing everything I intended to do and say here today.” The Beta waved her hand, evidently impatient to move on. “Were you eating _dirt_ , just now?"

"I was _tasting_ dirt, not eating it,” Zadie explained. “The gardener should know it is in need of vinegar."

"I somehow doubt the gardner will care much for seasoning notes on his dirt," the Beta replied. 

"He should,” Zadie said, looking down at the plant and rubbing one of its leaves with her thumb. “Azaleas prefer soil which is acidic, and this soil is decidedly not. Some vinegar in the water should fix it." She released the leaf, resting her elbows upon her knees so her arms dangled in front of her. "Who are you again?" she asked, looking back to the Beta and quirking her head to the side.

"I'll answer your questions after you answer mine." With this proclamation the Beta hiked her dark blue skirts up slightly, so she might cut over the patch of dewy moneywort, and joined Zadie on the path, dropping her hem afterwards to brush the gravel. She crossed her arms and fixed Zadie with a scrutinizing stare. “What are your intentions towards Lady Evangeline?”

“To marry her,” Zadie replied briskly. She had been asked this question in some form or another several times over these past weeks. She thought it an odd question for so many to have, as this intent had been clearly communicated in her advertisement, but it seemed to please people to have her affirm it anyway. That this woman had asked her about Lady Evangeline surely meant she must know who Zadie was, and about her quest. She should be satisfied by the confirmation. But the Beta did not appear at all well pleased by her answer. She shook her head with a disdainful air and began to walk to and fro in front of the pond.

"Is that really _all_ the thought you've given to the matter, Alpha?" she asked once she stopped moving about.

“Of course I have other things I would like us to do besides having a wedding,” Zadie answered, in fact pleased by the chance to discuss her plan even as the question had been put to her in a strangely hostile tone. “I also would like to take her back to my home and show her the house and the grounds. I would like for her to live there with me once we are wed. I would like to talk to her about the things she is interested in, and to talk to her about the things that interest me. I would like to eat dinner with her, and also breakfast. And I would like to learn everything about her that she will tell me, and love her and protect her, and spend the entierty of my life alongside her. That is what every Alpha intends towards their truemate, is it not?” 

“What are you to do if she’s not who you think she is?” the Beta asked, as if Zadie’s list had not in the least impressed her.

“Belinda and Bertram have also proposed this, that Evangeline may not be her given name. I am fairly certain it is, but I have thought carefully on the matter and determined that I would not mind if it was not,” she explained. “She most likely had a good reason not to tell me the truth.” 

The Beta resumed pacing, and in her motions a lock of hair escaped her coiffure and fell in front of her face, being blown aside before she next spoke.

“What if there were other things that you were to find out about her... things other people do not understand? Things _you_ might not understand?” 

“There is _nothing_ that Lady Evangeline could reveal which would deter my love,” Zadie assured.

“Nothing at all you say?” The Beta’s incredulity was scathingly obvious. “You don’t mean that, Alpha. Imagine if she,” she paused, waving her hand as if conjuring an example out of the motes of pollen in the air, “if she did something dreadful, like murder someone? You mean to say _that_ would not deter you?”

Zadie had not thought about this before. So Zadie thought about it then.

“No, it would not sway the constancy of my heart,” she concluded, “for I am certain she would have had a good reason for this as well, were it true. But I do not think it is true. She did not at all seem like a murderess in my judgement.”

“You’re kidding,” the Beta said, stilling her motions and raising a brow. 

“I kid not,” Zadie assured. The Beta considered Zadie, shifting her weight from side to side like a cat settling it's haunches, a glint in her eye both wary and intrigued.

“What if she revealed she did not want what _you_ want?” she asked. With all her pacing and shifting, with her queries and her mane of frazzled hairs and her mistrustful eyes, Zadie thought of a sphynx guarding a pathway with a riddle. A question which was a test. 

Zadie had never been good at questions which were tests.

“What should she not want that I want?” she asked aloud, thinking it out to herself. “I suppose she might not want as large a portion for dinner as I would. I think I could tell the cook to simply give her a lesser amount. If not, I could probably be able to eat her extraneous food. I can eat a good deal, you know, and-”

“What if she did not want to be with _you_ , Alpha?” the Beta asked suddenly. Zadie started, finding herself falling back onto the seat of her trousers onto the path, her legs having gone partially numb from crouching. 

“But she does want to be with me,” she argued. “She said she wished to dance with me again.” Too late Zadie realized that this might have been information she was meant not to reveal. The shock of the Beta vascillating from speaking of murder and dinner portions to _this_ had quite badly jarred her.

“A dance is not a marriage, and Omegas change their minds all the time,” the Beta replied. “What would you do if she wished to have nothing to do with you, Alpha?” The pressing way the woman asked this made Zadie even more certain that these must be questions which are tests, and she felt a panic rise up in her belly for a moment before she smushed it down. 

If this _were_ a test, what should be so terrible about answering wrong? The worst consequence she had faced so far for such shortcomings was being yelled at vigorously by her father. This Beta most likely could not yell as loudly as her father, and she was not an actual Sphynx, so Zadie doubted she need worry about being eaten if she were unable to solve her riddle. 

And yet Zadie felt afraid still, for she did not very much at all like to think about the possibility proposed by these questions. If Lady Evangeline did not feel the same connection betwixt them, what _could_ she do? What if her handsomeness had made Evangeline disregard her words and thoughts as other Omega had? What if she should learn more about Zadie’s mind and from her learnings decide she no longer admired it? 

“Good God, Alpha,” the Beta’s voice came faintly to her, muffled as if shouted across a field in a rainstorm, “you’re reeling like you’ve been _shot_. Have you not considered even once that Evangeline might be less moonstruck than you are?” Zadie shook her head. The Beta muttered something to herself which Zadie could not make out.

“I shall have nothing to do but dispair, I fear,” she admitted, perhaps as much to herself as to the Beta. “I would return home and throw myself into my work, and hope I might forget her. I do not think I would ever fall in love again. My brother has urged me to marry, even if it comes to pass that I do not find Lady Evangeline, but he would have to be disappointed on that account. I will not marry a woman I do not love, and I cannot imagine so pure and ardent a feeling as love might occur to me twice in a lifetime.”

The Beta gave her a look which was intent and sharp and entirely unreadable.

“You’re an Alpha, aren’t you?” she asked, quietly now. “Would you not fight for her, if she denied you?”

“ _For_ her?” Zadie felt a hot flickering in her chest as she echoed these words, a memory burning within her of shining eyes and slender fingers and the impression of a great and terrible sorrow. A feeling as if she could fetch the sun and alter the seven seas if the Omega bid it. “I would battle any force, earthly or otherwise, for her. I would fight the devil himself for her. I would face all the armies of all the nations of the world if they stood between her and her happiness. But…” and here she felt shame weigh upon her shoulders like a cooling carcass, the memory of her father’s growling voice echoing in his study cutting at her eyes like an owl’s swooping talons. She grit her teeth. “ _But_ if she does not want me, then it would be _her_ I would be fighting, wouldn’t it be?” she pointed out. “I would not be fighting for her, but against her. I could not fight _against_ her.” Though it wounded her to consider the possibility of being rejected, no pain nor longing on her part could justify doing injury to Lady Evangeline. 

She knew this was the wrong answer. But to her, it was the right one.

“...An Alpha who can take no for an answer,” came the Beta’s voice, softer and a bit closer by. “Now that’s a new one on me.” There was a minute of quiet before the woman sighed and another before she continued to speak. “The truth is, Alpha, I think she wants exactly what you do. I think she likes you a great deal. But she’s very shy, and rather stubborn when she gets it into her head to be a martyr. I don’t think she’s yet ready to meet you, and I rather don’t know if you can be allowed to meet her yet.”

Zadie looked upwards at the Beta, her arms encircling her legs as she sat upon the cool gravel. 

“That may well be the case, Beta, but we cannot know for certain,” she mused. It did, admittedly, make her feel better to hear reassurance from the Beta, rather than an admonishment to be more Alphalike, but she was aware that the woman’s theories were pure conjecture. The Beta made a strange, slightly pinched face for a moment, then raised her eyebrows pointedly.

“I _know_ it is the case, Alpha,” she said.

“I appreciate your attempt to reassure me, Beta, but no,” Zadie sighed, resting her chin upon her knees. “Only Lady Evangeline, or those who know her closely, could possibly know such matters.” She turned her head and met the Beta’s eyes for a moment, trying to covey both her appreciation of her kind words and her determination that she not be humored like a child. The Beta gave her a rather hand look in return.

“Oh for pity’s sake,” she grumbled, crossing her arms. “What I am trying to convey to you, Alpha, is that I _do_ know such matters." Zadie stared at her, uncertain how to explain, other than by repeating herself, why this could not be true. The Beta sighed again, quite loudly, and looked upwards for a moment and then back to Zadie. " _I know who Lady Evangeline is._ " 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Imagine spending weeks plotting how to get ur sadsack shrinking violet baby sister together with her uber popular himbo crush and then right when ur about to spring ur plan you walk in on the popular himbo Literally Eating Dirt and you have to take a minute to deadass search your entire soul to confirm if u still want to go through this.
> 
> (Fun fact, tasting soil to judge it's pH level was a legitimate farming technique utilized in the eras before testing kits became widely available. It is not, however, a good idea (dirt bourne pathogens, heavy metals, poisonous fertilizing products, etc.) so please do not follow Zadie's example.)


End file.
